wing tired. By and by he began to rely
solely on the defense. When they were close, Beauvais played for the
point; the moment the space widened he took to the edge. He saw what
Maurice felt--the weakening, and he indulged in a cruel smile. They
came close; he made as though to give the point. Maurice, thinking
to anticipate, reached. Quick as light Beauvais raised his blade and
brought it down with crushing force, standing the while in the stirrups.
The blow missed Maurice's head by an inch, but it sank so deeply in his
left shoulder that it splintered the collar bone and stopped within a
hair of the great artery that runs underneath.

The world turned red, then black. When it grew light again Maurice
beheld the dripping blade swinging aloft again. Suddenly the black horse
snapped at the white, which veered. The stroke which would have split
Maurice's skull in twain, fell on the rear of the saddle, and the blade
was so firmly imbedded in the wooden molding that Beauvais could not
withdraw it at once. Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yet
Maurice saw his chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength at
the brown throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's body
stiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched wildly at
the steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it. A bloody foam
gushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he swayed, and finally
tumbled into the road--dead.

As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own there
passed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still living, dwelt in a
lonely convent, thousands of miles away.

Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness began to
steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand was red, and the
blood dripped from his fingers and made round black spots in the dust of
the road. A circle of this blackness was widening about the head of the
fallen man. Maurice watched it, fascinated... He was dead, and the fact
that he was a prince did not matter.

It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into lead, and
he vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a weight. He was
sleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also must be dying.... No;
he would not die there, beside this man. He still gripped his saber.
Indeed, his hand was as if soldered to the wire and leather windings on
the hilt. Mollendorf had said that Beauvais was invincible.... Beauvais
was dead. Was he,