The next instant Tournay threw aside the knife and stood looking with awe upon the prostrate body. The bushes behind him parted with a rustle and he looked over his shoulder to see the Marquis de St. Hilaire standing by him.
"What's the matter?" inquired the latter sternly. "Has the marquis injured himself?"
"He struck me," exclaimed Tournay, his face, except for a bright red line across the brow, deadly pale. "And I—I have killed him."
St. Hilaire stooped down and undid the marquis's waistcoat, Tournay giving way to him. "He's not dead," said St. Hilaire, after a short examination. "Your blade struck the rib. He is not even fatally hurt, but has fainted."
Tournay stood passive and silent.
St. Hilaire rose to his feet and proceeded to cut some strips from his own shirt to make a bandage for de Lacheville's wound.
"As far as you are concerned, you might as well have killed him," he said as he bound up the wound. "The penalty is the same."
"I'm not afraid of the penalty."
"Young man," said St. Hilaire, busying himself over the wound, "mount that horse of yours and ride away from this part of the country as fast as you can. I shall not see you."
"I'm not a coward to run away."