Yet, as he did so, he uttered a terrible moan himself and reeled back heavily against the wall, sliding a moment after down it and rolling to the ground. Vandecque's rapier was through his left lung, an inch below the shoulder. The fight was finished.
"Is he dead?" that ruffian heard a harsh, raucous voice whisper as he drew his sword from the other's body. "Is he dead?" while, turning, he saw the cadaverous face of Desparre peering over his shoulder at their victim.
"Dead," he replied breathlessly. "Mon Dieu! I hope so. Were he not, we should all have been dead ourselves ere long. And then--then--he might have found you out in your hiding-hole."
[CHAPTER IX]
ALONE
Laure scarcely moved for an hour after Walter had left her, but still sat upon the couch, gazing into the wood fire--musing always.
Sometimes on the sacrifice this man had made; more often on the profound depths of that sacrifice.
For it had in its depth that which she had never dreamed of; it had taken a shape she had never looked for.
When he brought her to this apartment she had supposed that, from this day, there was to commence a loveless life such as was so often witnessed in the marriages of convenience with which she was familiar enough in Paris; she had, indeed, told herself that she had escaped one sacrifice only to become the victim of another.
She had escaped Desparre, only to become tied to this Englishman for ever; an escape for the better, it was true, since he was young and manly, while Desparre was old and--worse--depraved. But, still, a sacrifice.