d no fear from the men who had accompanied Charles to
America; he had made inquiries, and learned that they were none but
fishermen and sailors; and any version of the story they might have
brought back would be too garbled and exaggerated to be believed.

But he feared La Pommeraye's sword, and under his doublet he put on a
shirt of mail. Seeking the quarters of a reckless cut-throat, who would
have assassinated his own father for a few sous, he gave him a purse of
gold, and letting him know the nature of the work before him, bade him
strike sure and sharp, as soon as La Pommeraye was engaged in
conversation; and instead of a purse, he would fill his cap with gold.

At the appointed hour he went to the rendezvous, where La Pommeraye was
impatiently awaiting him.

The nobleman's demeanour had entirely changed since he left Charles in
the afternoon. He now assumed the dignity of a man who has been unjustly
suspected, and is prepared to avenge an insult.

"So, Monsieur," he said, as Charles approached him, "you are still
determined to harrow up the past, and to compel me to acknowledge once
more the dishonour which has befallen my name."

"I am here," said Charles, his hot blood all aflame in an instant at the
implied slur on Marguerite, "to call you to account for the death of
Claude de Pontbriand, and for the foul wrong you did your innocent
niece."

As he spoke he rested his hand on his sword. De Roberval saw the action,
thought he meant to draw it, and his own weapon flashed from its sheath.
At this moment Marguerite appeared at the door of the church. She saw
her uncle draw his sword, and thinking they were about to fight, rushed
down the steps just as De Roberval made a pass at La Pommeraye, who,
adroitly stepping aside, escaped being wounded, and drawing his own
sword, stood on the defensive. As he did so, he heard a step behind him.
A sudden instinct warned him; leaping back, he barely escaped a
treacherous thrust from behind. At the same instant, De Roberval caught
sight of his niece's pale face in the uncertain light; and, striking
wildly at La Pommeraye, fell forward at the latter's feet.

Charles heeded him not. His blood was roused, and turning on the
would-be assassin, who was about to flee in terror, he ran him through
the heart.

Then seeing that De Roberval made no attempt to rise, he stooped and
turned him on his side, and saw that his hand clung in a death-grip to
his sword-hilt, while the poin