"De Mouy de Saint Phale!" he cried.

"Maurevel!" thundered the Huguenot, raising his sword. "I sought you,
and you have come to me. Thanks!"

But his anger did not make him forget Henry, and turning to the window
he whistled in the manner of the Bearnais shepherds.

"That will be enough," said he to Saucourt. "Now, then, murderer!"

And he sprang towards Maurevel.

The latter had had time to draw a pistol from his belt.

"Ah! now," said the King's Slayer, aiming at the young man, "I think you
are a dead man!"

He fired. De Mouy jumped to one side and the ball passed by without
touching him.

"It is my turn now!" cried the young man.

And he dealt Maurevel such a violent thrust with his sword that,
although the blade had to encounter his buff belt, the sharp point
pierced this obstacle and sank into the flesh.

The assassin gave a terrible cry of pain; whereupon the soldiers with
him, thinking he was killed, fled in alarm down the Rue Saint Honore.

Maurevel was not brave. Seeing himself abandoned by his followers, and
having to face an adversary like De Mouy, he strove to escape, and ran
after the guard, shouting, "help! help!"

De Mouy, Saucourt, and Barthelemy, carried away by their ardor, pursued
him. As they entered the Rue de Grenelle, which they had taken as a
short cut, a window opened and a man sprang out from the first floor,
landing on the ground lately wet by the rain.

It was Henry.

De Mouy's whistle had warned him of some danger and the pistol-shot had
showed him that the danger was great, and had drawn him to the aid of
his friends.

Energetic and vigorous, he dashed after them, sword in hand.

A cry guided him; it came from the Barrier des Sergents. It was
Maurevel, who being hard pressed by De Mouy was calling a second time
for help from his men who had run away.

Maurevel had to turn or be run through the back; he turned, therefore,
and, meeting his enemy's steel, gave him back so skilful a thrust that
the scarf of the latter was cut through. But De Mouy at once lunged. The
sword again sank into the flesh it had already broken, and a second jet
of blood spurted from a second wound.

"At him!" cried Henry, coming up. "Quick, quick, De Mouy!"

De Mouy needed no encouragement.

Again he charged at Maurevel; but the latter had not waited.

Pressing his left hand over his wound, he again took to flight.

"Kill him! Quick! Kill him!" cried the king, "here are the soldiers, and
t