"Then it was you who spoiled my appearance for the rest of my days!" cried Barbemouche. "May you writhe in the flames of hell!"
And, being without sword or other weapon, he aimed a blow of the fist at Blaise's head. Blaise, disdaining to use steel against an unarmed antagonist, contented himself with dodging the blow and dragging Barbemouche to a place where an opening in the courtyard wall overlooked a steep, rocky descent which was for some distance without vegetation. Here the two men grappled. There was some hard squeezing, some quick bending either way, a final powerful forcing forward of the arms on the part of Blaise, a last violent propulsion of the same arms, and Barbemouche was thrown backward down the precipice. Blaise stood for a time looking over. We heard a series of dull concussions, a sound of the flight of detached small stones, and then nothing.
"God giveth the battle to the strong!" said Blaise, and he came away from the precipice.
De Berquin shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to me.
"As I said, monsieur," he began, "I have come here to do you a service."
"Indeed!" said I, coldly, choosing to assume indifference and ignorance.
"I knew not that I was in need of any."
"Your need of it is all the greater for that," said De Berquin, quietly. "Monsieur, I would hinder some one from doing you a foul deed, though to do so I must rob that person of your esteem."
"Speak clearly, M. de Berquin," said I, thinking that he was taking the wrong way to get my confidence. "It is impossible that any one having my esteem should need hindrance from a foul deed."
De Berquin stood perfectly still and looked me straight in the face, saying:
"Is it a foul deed to betray a man into the hands of his enemies?"