'You—you traitor,' he gasped, as, using his sword with his left hand, his sword ripped the free-lance's ruff.
'Stand back, old fool—stand back—or—there! Take it,' and, with a sharp scream, d'Ayen fell backwards, the crowd splitting for a moment, so that he rolled to the foot of the stairs and came up at my feet. God rest his soul! He died at the last like a gallant man.
They were backing in confusion now, and above the din I could hear the mocking of de Gomeron.
'Come, gentlemen, do not delay, time presses.'
One rush through at that time might have saved him, but he stood there playing with death. With an effort I pushed d'Ayen, who was still breathing, against the side of the wall, to let the poor wretch die in such comfort as could be, and, seeing my chance at last, made my way to the front.
De Gomeron was half-way down the stairs by this, and when our swords met he did not for the moment recognise me. But at the second pass he realised, and the torchlight showed him pale to the forehead.
'You!' he said between his teeth.
'Yes—I—from under the Seine,' and I had run him through the throat but for our position, where the advantage was all his, and my reach too short. He had backed a step up as I spoke. Whether it was my sudden appearance or what, I know not, but from this moment his bravado left him, and he now fought doggedly and for dear life.
There was a hush behind me, and the light became brighter as more torches were brought, and I could now see the Camarguer white as a sheet, with two red spots on his cheeks.
'Do you like fighting a dead man, monsieur?' I asked as I parried a thrust in tierce.