I was pounding vigorously on the
door when a voice behind me cried out blithely:

"So you are back at last, Felix Broux"

At the first word I wheeled around. In the court entrance stood
Yeux-gris, smiling and debonair. He had laid aside his sword, and held
on his left arm a basket containing a loaf of bread, a roast capon, and
some bottles, for all the world like an honest prentice doing his
master's errand.

"Yes, I am back!" I shouted. "Back to kill you, parricide!"

He had a knife in his belt; the fight was even. I was upon him, my
dagger raised to strike. He made no motion to draw, and I remembered in
a flash he could not: his right arm was powerless. He sprang back,
flinging up his burdened left as a shield, and my blade buried itself in
the side of the basket.

As I stabbed I heard feet thundering down the stairs within. I jerked my
knife from the wicker and turned to face this new enemy. "Grammont," I
thought, and that my end had come.

The door flew open and, shoulder to shoulder like brothers, out rushed
Grammont and--Lucas!

My fear was drowned in amaze. I forgot to run and stood staring in
sheer, blank bewilderment. Crying "Damned traitor!" Gervais, with drawn
sword, charged at me.

I had only the little dagger. I owe my life to Yeux-gris's quick wits
and no less quick fingers. Dropping the basket, he snatched a bottle
from it and hurled it at Gervais.

"Ware, Grammont!" shouted Lucas, springing forward. But the missile flew
too quickly. It struck Grammont square on the forehead, and he went down
like a slaughtered ox.

We looked, not at him, but at Lucas--Lucas, the duke's deferential
servant, the coward and skulker, Grammont's hatred, standing here by
Grammont's side, glaring at us over his naked sword.

I saw in one glance that Yeux-gris was no less astounded than I, and
from that instant, though the inwardness of the matter was still a
riddle to me, my heart acquitted him of all dishonesty, of all
complicity. His was not the face of a parricide.

"Lucas!" he cried, in a dearth of words. "_Lucas!_"

I was staring at Lucas in thick bewilderment. The man was transformed
from the one I knew. At M. le Duc's he had been pale, nervous, and
shaken--senselessly and contemptibly scared, as I thought, since he was
warned of the danger and need not face it. But now he was another man. I
can think only of those lanterns I have seen, set with coloured glass.
They look dull enough all day, but when the