He half groaned, and the red spot on his cheek grew bigger, but he made no answer, and step by step I forced him upwards.
He had been touched more than once, and there was a stain on his white satin doublet that was broadening each moment, whilst thrust and parry grew weaker, and something, I know not what, told me he was my man.
Messieurs, you who may read this, those at least of you who have stood sword in hand and face to face with a bitter foe, where the fight is to the last, will know that there are moments when it is as if God Himself nerves the arm and steels the wrist. And so it was then with me. I swear it that I forestalled each movement of the twinkling blade before me, that each artifice and trick the skilful swordsman who was fighting for his life employed was felt by something that guided my sword, now high, now low, and ever and again wet its point against the broad breast of the Camarguer.
So, too, with him—he was lost, and he knew it. But he was a brave man, if ever there was one, and he pulled himself together as we reached the upper landing for one last turn with the death that dogged him. So fierce was the attack he now made, that had he done so but a moment before, when the advantage of position was his, I know not what had happened. But now it was different. He was my man. I was carried away by the fire within me, or else in pity I might have spared him; but there is no need to speak of this more. He thrust too high. I parried and returned, so that the cross hilt of my rapier struck dully over his heart, and he died where he fell.
But one word escaped him, some long-lost memory, some secret of that iron heart came up at the last.
'Denise!' he gasped, and was gone.
I stood over him for a moment, a drumming in my ears, and then I heard the ringing of cheers and the rush of feet. Then a half-dozen strong shoulders were at the door before me, and as it fell back with a crash I sprang in and took a tall, slim, white-robed figure in my arms, and kissed her dear face again and again.
One by one those in the room stepped out and left us together, and for once a brave heart gave way and she sobbed like a child on my shoulder.
I said nothing, but held her to me, and so we might have been for a half-hour, when I heard de Belin's voice at the broken door:
'D'Auriac! Come, man!—the King waits! And bring your prisoner!'