“Mon père!” said St. Cyergue, “you had better go.”
And the reply came in deep, stern tones:
“There may be work for a priest when this is done.”
“Let him stay. If he goes, he may call the watch,” said one of those present, and St. Cyergue turned on his heel with a shrug of his shoulders.
Lignières had followed my example, and stripped to his shirt, then came the few brief preliminaries, and Ponthieu’s sharp
“Allez, messieurs!”
For a little we tried to feel each other’s strength, and it was nothing but pretty sword-play. But it soon came to deadly earnest, for I was in a white heat with rage, and almost beside myself with the events of the day; whilst Lignières—well—he meant to kill me as he had killed others before.
But it was his hour; and it was all over in five minutes. He thrust too low in quarto, I parried, and with the riposte ran him through, and with a gasp he flung his sword into the air, and fell backward, rolling limply on his side as he touched the flagstones.
I stood over him, my red sword quivering in my hand, and the others crowded round, grave and pale.
Ponthieu was kneeling by the fallen man, his hand to his heart, a troubled look on his face. And now the tall figure of the Capuchin stole silently up, and bending down, he said to Ponthieu, “I said there would be work for me.”