vain; he glanced at the
queen, and saw the deepest pity depicted in her face; then he felt that
she alone could save him; he threw his arms round her.

Coconnas advanced, and with the point of his long rapier again wounded
his enemy's shoulder, and the crimson drops of warm blood stained the
white and perfumed sheets of Marguerite's couch.

Marguerite saw the blood flow; she felt the shudder that ran through La
Mole's frame; she threw herself with him into the recess between the bed
and the wall. It was time, for La Mole, whose strength was exhausted,
was incapable of flight or resistance; he leaned his pallid head on
Marguerite's shoulder, and his hand convulsively seized and tore the
thin embroidered cambric which enveloped Marguerite's body in a billow
of gauze.

"Oh, madame," murmured he, in a dying voice, "save me."

He could say no more. A mist like the darkness of death came over his
eyes, his head sunk back, his arms fell at his side, his legs gave way,
and he sank on the floor, bathed in his blood, and dragging the queen
with him.

At this moment Coconnas, excited by the shouts, intoxicated by the sight
of blood, and exasperated by the long chase, advanced toward the recess;
in another instant his sword would have pierced La Mole's heart, and
perhaps Marguerite's also.

At the sight of the bare steel, and even more moved at such brutal
insolence, the daughter of kings drew herself up to her full stature and
uttered such a shriek of terror, indignation, and rage that the
Piedmontese stood petrified by an unknown feeling; and yet undoubtedly
had this scene been prolonged and no other actor taken part in it, his
feeling would have vanished like a morning snow under an April sun. But
suddenly a secret door in the wall opened, and a pale young man of
sixteen or seventeen, dressed in black and with his hair in disorder,
rushed in.

"Wait, sister!" he cried; "here I am, here I am!"

"Francois! Francois!" cried Marguerite; "help! help!"

"The Duc d'Alencon!" murmured La Huriere, grounding his arquebuse.

"By Heaven! a son of France!" growled Coconnas, drawing back.

The duke glanced round him. He saw Marguerite, dishevelled, more lovely
than ever, leaning against the wall, surrounded by men, fury in their
eyes, sweat on their foreheads, and foam in their mouths.

"Wretches!" cried he.

"Save me, brother!" shrieked Marguerite. "They are going to kill me!"

A flame flashed across the duke's pallid face.