stair-head. It will hold them back for a time. Then, for God's sake,
Monsieur La Mothe, fight, fight, fight. Fight to the last. It is for
life, it is for France, it is for Mademoiselle."

"And you?"

"I will hold the door."

"But that is death."

"It will give you a minute, or two, or three."

"Then it is my place; I have a sword."

"I love him best," answered Hugues. To him was the one unanswerable
argument; he loved him best, and love had the right to die for love's
sake. "You understand? When I cry Now! run--run."

"Hugues, Hugues, let me----"

"Do you think a valet cannot love?"

"It is time," said a voice from without. "Are you ready, rats?"

"Yes, monsieur, yes, yes. I have him persuaded Just one little moment.
Monsieur La Mothe, NOW! Now!"

"No, Hugues, no, let me----"

"Damn you, man, would you murder the Dauphin for a scruple? Now! I
say, Now!"

"I have a sword----"

But Hugues had caught up the slender cudgel dropped by Marcel in his
flight for the stairs and was already in the doorway.

"If you want the Dauphin, come and take him. God save the Dauphin!
France! France!" and drawing a deep breath he stood on guard, one
wooden sword against a dozen of steel.

"Bravo, Hugues," cried La Follette from above. "Hold the scoundrels
while you can, and God be with you. Come, La Mothe, come, come."

And what could La Mothe do but obey? For a moment he glanced this way
and that, uncertain, drawn to the one man who stood alone against such
odds, yet knowing that to aid him was the surest way to make Hugues'
sacrifice unavailing. Then he jumped for the stairs; but not before
the doorway was darkened; not before he heard the dull clash of steel
upon wood; not before Hugues had stifled a cry which told that the
offering up of the sacrifice had begun.

And as it began so it ended. But how desperately the breach was held,
how desperately Hugues fought with his mockery of a sword, with his
bare hands, with his very breast, they could only guess when he was
found later with the staff in splinters, his palms and arms hacked and
gashed, his bosom agape with dumb mouths which told their tale of love
and splendid courage lavished to the utmost. He died with all his
wounds in front; he died for loyalty, for love's sake, giving his life
without a grudge. Could a Roland or a Charlemagne have done more?

Reaching forward La Follette seized La Mothe, dragging him up the last
three stairs, "Dr