The Jacobin's face moved convulsively. He coughed, spattering blood about him. His right arm moved in quick jerks. His sword dropped, and stuck upright in the floor, quivering.
"Dog of an aristocrat!" he cried. His distorted face twitched; he staggered to left, to right, and at last tumbled in a heap, a massive figure, of a sudden inert and harmless.
"HE STAGGERED TO LEFT, TO RIGHT, AND AT LAST TUMBLED IN A HEAP."
The marquis stood still and looked down at his foe.
"What the deuce to do with him?" said François.
"Take his head, and drag him into your room. We can talk then."
"Will monsieur take his feet?"
"What! I touch the dog? No, not I."
François did not like it; but making no reply, he dragged the Jacobin's helpless bulk after him, and, once in his room, pulled the mattress off the bed, and without roughness drew the man upon it.