But Alfred had already rushed upon him, sword in hand; a terrible combat took place within a few feet of the unconscious girl. It lasted only a few seconds; Alfred dealt his blows with startling rapidity; he seemed endowed with unusual strength and dexterity. His adversary fell at his feet, mortally wounded, at the moment that the baron and Edouard entered Isaure’s retreat.
They were about to take the girl away from that horrible place and carry her out to the path, where the sharp air would probably restore her to consciousness. But the man whom Alfred had overcome still breathed and motioned that he wished to speak. They gathered about him; compassion had succeeded the desire for revenge, and they tried to assist him.
"Spare yourself useless trouble," said the wounded man in a dying voice; "I feel that I am dying,—let me look once more upon Isaure’s beloved features. Oh! do not recall her to life until I have ceased to live.—Alfred, you have avenged your father! I am Savigny—the unhappy Adèle’s seducer!"
"Savigny!" cried the baron, with a gesture expressive of horror.
"Yes; I see it all now. Isaure is my daughter, my Adèle’s child! And I barely missed being her murderer! But heaven decreed that that ghastly crime should not be committed, and I thank heaven for it! The poor child will execrate my memory!—Promise me that you will never tell her that I was her father!"
The three men who stood about Savigny had hardly made the promise he requested, when, after making a last effort to kiss his unconscious daughter’s hand, the wretched man fell back and closed his eyes forever.
They carried Isaure out to the path and did all that could be done for her. At last she opened her eyes, glanced about and uttered a cry of joy when she found that she was in the arms of her friends.
"O my God! thou hast saved me!" she said; but a moment later she cried, glancing in terror toward the hut: "But he is there! suppose he should come and still want to kill me!"
"The man who snatched you from our arms no longer lives," said the baron. "You will see him no more, my dear Isaure; he died fighting with my son."
"He is dead!" exclaimed Isaure, evidently with a thrill of compassion; and instantly, falling on her knees, she raised her hands toward heaven, saying: "O my God! forgive him, as I do, all the injury he has done me!"