e watching the
struggle and gibbering to himself--the only one of the mob who had
dared to venture so far. Perhaps he had been waiting for his chance
against the man who had destroyed his life, and had chosen the very
moment of Simon's flight for his revenge. Who knows? But as Simon
slipped back he sprang forward, something shining in his hand, and
flung himself desperately against the door ere it could be closed. The
moment's delay he caused was our chance, and rushing forward we too
added our weight to that of the maniac.

In an instant the door gave way, and we dashed in, the madman first,
striking to the right and left of him with a poniard. It is difficult,
almost impossible, to describe what followed. All that I know is that
I stumbled over someone who had fallen, and as I rose to my feet I
caught a glimpse of De Mouchy flying up the stair, Le Brusquet at his
heels, and realised at the same instant that Simon was on me, death in
his eyes.

Nothing could have saved me then, but that a stronger hand than that of
man was stretched forth to claim its own vengeance. As Simon's arm was
lifted the figure over which I had fallen raised itself to its knees
and, clasping the Vidame round the waist, buried a knife in his side.

With a fearful cry Simon shortened his sword and stabbed back in his
turn; but De Ganache, for it was he, uttered no sound, and with a last
effort, rising to his feet, struck Simon once more, this time to the
heart. And they both fell sideways, the madman's hand still clenching
the haft of the poniard in his death-grip.

It was over in a hand-turn, and the two who had died so terribly
together had taken their quarrel with them to the last judgment seat.
Simon's face I could not see; but as I bent over the two I saw in the
glazing eyes of De Ganache the light of an unutterable hate--a hate
that, mayhap, was carried beyond the grave.

"Orrain! Orrain!"

Twice the cry rang out--Le Brusquet's voice--and pushing my way past
the mob that had already swarmed in and begun to sack and pillage I ran
up the stair. At the head stood Le Brusquet, and huddled in a corner
near a door was De Mouchy, with a white, fear-stricken face and
chattering teeth, and De Lorgnac's sword at his heart.

Numbers had followed me, and at the sight of De Mouchy a roar went
forth that was taken up by those below.

"Give us the judge! Give us De Mouchy!"

Let it be remembered, that amongst those who cried for him