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“And now that you have discovered this,” she murmured, “therefore you wish to live?”

“Why, partly on account of that,” he said, “yet perhaps mostly on account of you…. But heyho!” said John Bulmer; “I am disfiguring my last hours by inflicting upon a lady my half-baked theology. Let us sit down, my dear, and talk of trifles till they find us. And then I will kill you, sweetheart, and afterward myself. Presently come dawn and death; and my heart, according to the ancient custom of Poictesme, is crying, ‘Oy Dieus! Oy Dieus, de l’alba tantost ve!‘ But for all that, my mouth will resolutely discourse of the last Parisian flounces, or of your unfathomable eyes, or of Monsieur de Voltaire’s new tragedy of Oreste,–or, in fine, of any topic you may elect.”

He smiled, with a twinging undercurrent of regret that not even in impendent death did he find any stimulus to the heroical. But the girl had given a muffled cry.

“Look, Jean! Already they come for us.”

Through the little garden a man was running, running frenziedly from one wall to another when he found the place had no outlet save the gate through which he had scuttled. It was fat Guiton, the steward of the Duc de Puysange. Presently came Achille Cazaio with a wet sword, and harried the unarmed old man, wantonly driving him about the poplars, pricking him in the quivering shoulders, but never killing him. All the while the steward screamed with a monotonous shrill wailing.

After a little he fell at Cazaio’s feet, shrieking for mercy.

“Fool!” said the latter, “I am Achille Cazaio. I have no mercy in me.”

He kicked the steward in the face two or three times, and Guiton, his countenance all blood, black in the moonlight, embraced the brigand’s and wept. Presently Cazaio slowly drove his sword into the back of the prostrate man, who shrieked, “O Jesu!” and began to cough and choke. Five times Cazaio spitted the writhing thing, and afterward was Guiton’s soul released from the tortured body.

“Is it well, think you,” said John Bulmer, “that I should die without first killing Achille Cazaio?”

“No!” the girl answered, fiercely.

Then John Bulmer leaned upon the parapet of the Constable’s Tower and called aloud, “Friend Achille, your conduct disappoints me.”

The man started, peered about, and presently stared upward. “Monsieur Bulmaire, to encounter you is indeed an unlooked-for pleasure. May I inquire wherein I have been so ill-fated as to offend?”

“You have an engagement to fight me on Thursday afternoon, friend Achille, so that to all intent I hold a mortgage on your life. I submit that, in consequence, you have no right to endanger that life by besieging castles and wasting the night in assassinations.”

“There is something in what you say, Monsieur Bulmaire,” the brigand replied, “and I very heartily apologize for not thinking of it earlier. But in the way of business, you understand,–However, may I trust it will please you to release me from this inconvenient obligation?” Cazaio added, with a smile. “My men are waiting for me yonder, you comprehend.”

“In fact,” said John Bulmer, hospitably, “up here the moonlight is as clear as day. We can settle our affair in five minutes.”

“I come,” said Cazaio, and plunged into the entrance to the Constable’s Tower.

“The pistol! quick!” said Claire.

“And for what, pray?” said John Bulmer.

“So that from behind, as he lifts the trap-door, I may shoot him through the head. Do you stand in front as though to receive him. It will be quite simple.”

XV

“My dear creature,” said John Bulmer, “I am now doubly persuaded that God entirely omitted what we term a sense of honor when He created the woman. I mean to kill this rapscallion, but I mean to kill him fairly.” He unbolted the trap-door and immediately Cazaio stood upon the roof, his sword drawn.

Achille Cazaio stared at the tranquil woman, and now his countenance was less that of a satyr than of a demon. “At four in the morning! I congratulate you, Monsieur Bulmaire,” he said,–“Oh, decidedly, I congratulate you.”