soldiers, rendered furious because they had missed him, darted like
lightning in front of Coconnas, who was waiting for him at the gate with
his poniard in his hand.

"Touched!" cried the Piedmontese, piercing his arm with his keen,
delicate blade.

"Coward!" replied the fugitive, striking his enemy in the face with the
flat of his weapon, for want of room to thrust at him with its point.

"A thousand devils!" cried Coconnas; "it's Monsieur de la Mole!"

"Monsieur de la Mole!" re-echoed La Huriere and Maurevel.

"He is the one who warned the admiral!" cried several soldiers.

"Kill him--kill him!" was shouted on all sides.

Coconnas, La Huriere, and a dozen soldiers rushed in pursuit of La Mole,
who, covered with blood, and having attained that state of exaltation
which is the last resource of human strength, dashed through the
streets, with no other guide than instinct. Behind him, the footsteps
and shouts of his enemies spurred him on and seemed to give him wings.
Occasionally a bullet would whistle by his ears and suddenly add new
swiftness to his flight just as it was beginning to slacken. He no
longer breathed; it was not breath, but a dull rattle, a hoarse panting,
that came from his chest. Perspiration and blood wet his locks and ran
together down his face.

His doublet soon became too oppressive for the beating of his heart and
he tore it off. Soon his sword became too heavy for his hand and he
flung it far away. Sometimes it seemed to him that the footsteps of his
pursuers were farther off and that he was about to escape them; but in
response to their shouts, other murderers who were along his path and
nearer to him left off their bloody occupations and started in pursuit
of him.

Suddenly he caught sight of the river flowing silently at his left; it
seemed to him that he should feel, like a stag at bay, an ineffable
pleasure in plunging into it, and only the supreme power of reason could
restrain him.

On his right was the Louvre, dark and motionless, but full of strange
and ominous sounds; soldiers on the drawbridge came and went, and
helmets and cuirasses glittered in the moonlight. La Mole thought of the
King of Navarre, as he had before thought of Coligny; they were his only
protectors. He collected all his strength, and inwardly vowing to abjure
his faith should he escape the massacre, by making a detour of a score
or two of yards he misled the mob pursuing him, darted straight for the
Louvre,