ve in vain to parry, and then AEsop dropped
his sword and fell heavily upon the grass. He was dead, dead of the
thrust in the face, exactly between the eyes, the thrust of Nevers.

Lagardere leaned over his dead enemy and smiled. His account against the
assassins of Caylus was being slowly paid; but never had any item of that
account been annulled with less regret. The others--Staupitz, Saldagno,
Pinto, and the rest--had been ruffianly creatures enough, but there was
a kind of honesty, a measure of courage in their ruffianism. They were,
at least some of them, good-hearted in their way, true to their comrades
and their leaders; but of the ignoble wretch that now lay a huddle of
black at his feet, Lagardere knew nothing that was not loathsome, and he
knew much of Master AEsop.

Lagardere stooped and gathered a handful of grass, wiped his sword and
sheathed it.

"Yes," he said, apostrophizing the dead body, "you shall serve a good
cause now, Master AEsop, if you have never served a good cause yet."

He looked anxiously about him as he spoke to make sure that the solitude
was still undisturbed. There was not a human being within sight on either
bank of the river. This quiet, this isolation, were very welcome to his
temper just then, for the purpose that had come into Lagardere's mind at
the commencement of the combat had matured, had ripened during its course
into a feasible plan. It had its risks, but what did that matter in an
enterprise that was all risk; and if it succeeded, as, thanks to its very
daring, it might succeed, it promised a magnificent reward. That it
involved the despoiling of a dead body in no way harassed Lagardere. He
was never one to let himself be squeamish over trifles where a great
cause was at stake, and, though much that was inevitable to the success
of his scheme was repellent to him, he choked down his disgust and faced
his duty with a smile. Quickly he dragged the body of his dead enemy
into the shelter and seclusion of the orchard-trees. There, rolling AEsop
on his face, he proceeded nimbly and dexterously to strip his clothes
from his body. Soon the black coat, black vest, black breeches, black
stockings, black boots, and black hat lay in a pile of sable raiment on
the orchard grass. As he garnered his spoil, a little book dropped from
the pocket of the black coat and lay upon the grass. Lagardere picked it
up and opened it with a look of curiosity that speedily changed to one of
aversion