"Have a care. Remember!"
Suddenly Simon, who had gained a slight advantage, called out: "I accept. I have lost." And he half raised his blade. I gave back, lowering my point as I did so, and at that moment the door opened, and with a laugh Simon sprang back, and vanished from our sight.
So quick, so instant was his retreat, that for a second I hardly realised it. But someone else had. All unnoticed by us De Ganache had been crouching in the shadow of the vaulted passage watching the struggle and gibbering to himself—the only one of the mob who had dared to venture so far. Perhaps he had been waiting for his chance against the man who had destroyed his life, and had chosen the very moment of Simon's flight for his revenge. Who knows? But as Simon slipped back he sprang forward, something shining in his hand, and flung himself desperately against the door ere it could be closed. The moment's delay he caused was our chance, and rushing forward we too added our weight to that of the maniac.
In an instant the door gave way, and we dashed in, the madman first, striking to the right and left of him with a poniard. It is difficult, almost impossible, to describe what followed. All that I know is that I stumbled over someone who had fallen, and as I rose to my feet I caught a glimpse of De Mouchy flying up the stair, Le Brusquet at his heels, and realised at the same instant that Simon was on me, death in his eyes.
Nothing could have saved me then, but that a stronger hand than that of man was stretched forth to claim its own vengeance. As Simon's arm was lifted the figure over which I had fallen raised itself to its knees and, clasping the Vidame round the waist, buried a knife in his side.
With a fearful cry Simon shortened his sword and stabbed back in his turn; but De Ganache, for it was he, uttered no sound, and with a last effort, rising to his feet, struck Simon once more, this time to the heart. And they both fell sideways, the madman's hand still clenching the haft of the poniard in his death-grip.
It was over in a hand-turn, and the two who had died so terribly together had taken their quarrel with them to the last judgment seat. Simon's face I could not see; but as I bent over the two I saw in the glazing eyes of De Ganache the light of an unutterable hate—a hate that, mayhap, was carried beyond the grave.
"Orrain! Orrain!"
Twice the cry rang out—Le Brusquet's voice—and pushing my way past the mob that had already swarmed in and begun to sack and pillage I ran up the stair. At the head stood Le Brusquet, and huddled in a corner near a door was De Mouchy, with a white, fear-stricken face and chattering teeth, and De Lorgnac's sword at his heart.
Numbers had followed me, and at the sight of De Mouchy a roar went forth that was taken up by those below.