“Hallo, brother—you are there! Good!”
Hanotin snarled and darted through the chapel doorway, swinging the door to after him. Bertrand dashed it open, and stepped over the body of the man the Monk had stabbed. A woman’s cry rang out through the chapel. Before the altar stood Hanotin, holding Tiphaïne by the bosom with one great paw, and brandishing his poniard with the other.
“Off, dog, off!”
Hanotin spat like a cat, and forced Tiphaïne down across his thigh.
“A truce, or the knife goes home.”
Bertrand faltered in his fury and stood looking at Tiphaïne, Hanotin’s hand gripping her bosom, her hair falling down in disorder as he held her across his knee. Bertrand could not see her face. She was struggling a little, her bosom heaving under the man’s paw, her hands stretched out to catch the blow.
“Loose your hold!”
Hanotin showed his teeth and grinned. The ruse was a desperate one, but he had Bertrand baffled for the moment.
“No, no, messire. You see my terms. Curse you!—she-dog—”
Tiphaïne had seized her chance and twisted herself free from Hanotin’s grip. She slipped and fell upon the altar steps, and rolled down them to the floor. Hanotin sprang forward, but Bertrand was too quick for him. There was the whistling of a sword, the clang of a helmet, and the Monk’s bassinet ran blood. He staggered and fell, with Tiphaïne beneath him, and in his blind death agony tried to stab her as he lay. Bertrand, throwing down his sword, seized Hanotin by the sword-belt. He lifted him from Tiphaïne and swung him away upon the floor, and in the fury of his vengeance dashed his mailed heel again and again into the man’s face. Life was over for Hanotin. He had given his last blow.