“Yours, madame, are the first woman’s arms that ever Martin de Garnache has known,” said he. “And never could embrace of beauty have been less welcome.”
Panting, he caught up one of the overturned chairs. Holding it by the back he made for the window. He had dropped his sword, and he called to mademoiselle to hold the captain yet an instant longer. He swung his chair aloft and dashed it against the window. There was a thundering crash of shivered glass and a cool draught of that November night came to sweeten the air that had been fouled by the stamping of the fighters.
Again he swung up his chair and dashed it at the window, and yet again, until no window remained, but a great, gaping opening with a fringe of ragged glass and twisted leadwork.
In that moment Fortunio struggled to his feet, free of the girl, who sank, almost in a swoon. He sprang towards Garnache. The Parisian turned and flung his now shattered chair toward the advancing captain. It dropped at his feet, and his flying shins struck against an edge of it, bringing him, hurt and sprawling, to the ground. Before he could recover, a figure was flying through the open gap that lately had been a window.
Mademoiselle sat up and screamed.
“You will be killed, Monsieur de Garnache! Dear God, you will be killed!” and the anguish in her voice was awful.
It was the last thing that reached the ears of Monsieur de Garnache as he tumbled headlong through the darkness of the chill November night.
CHAPTER XVIII. IN THE MOAT
Fortunio and the Marquise reached the window side by side, and they were in time to hear a dull splash in the waters fifty feet below them. There was a cloud over the little sickle of moon, and to their eyes, fresh from the blaze of candle-light, the darkness was impenetrable.