"Kill him! Kill him!" cried Marguerita. "For my sake kill him! By no hand but yours must the villain die!"
They both fought desperately and determinedly, one fighting for life, and the other for vengeance.
Hopeless of directing Marguerita from her appalling object, Julia turned, sick at heart, toward the window—the same window which had given entrance to the Partisan, when he arrived but in time to save Marguerita—and at the very moment she did so, it was driven inward with a loud crash, and she was clasped in the arms of Arthur Gordon. The sound of the forceful entrance, the clanking steps of his men, for the three dragoons were at his heels, and the clatter of his accoutrements, had well nigh proved fatal to Alava; for at the sudden uproar in his rear, he turned his head quickly, and was admonished by a sharp wound in his side for his imprudence.
And, like a wounded lion, Juan de Alava charged him home so fiercely that he had not a second's breathing time. Three triple feints, each followed by a home lunge, Valdez had parried in succession, when he lunged in return. His foot slipped a little on the marble floor; his blade was struck aside by Alava's dagger, at the same instant in which his chest was pierced and his heart cleft asunder by his home-driven blade.
Scarce was that fearful death-struggle completed, when two of the dragoons advanced their carbines and called on Juan to yield him on good quarters.
Juan had already lost much blood, and staggered sickly, and would have fallen but for the sword on which he leaned.
"Where is your officer?" he asked, in Spanish. "I am a gentleman, and will not yield but to an officer."
"I am an officer," cried Gordon, springing forward, having learned by one word from Julia who he was. "I am your friend, too, Senor Don Juan—your friend forever."
Gordon, having seen Juan in safe hands, he went forth in search of a surgeon.