him. "Dieu! but the rat bit the cur dog that
time! Come on, you curs."

And the rats had need to bite. The well-hole was double-lined; those
in front fought upward, while those behind protected them and stole a
step higher if the defence slackened. Nice play of fence there was
none. In such a packed confusion the brute strength of Blaise the
stableman counted for more than the finest skill of fence in the world.
And with the brute's strength he seemed to have the brute's
indifference to pain. Twice, stooping low, he parried with his arm,
taking the slash with a gasp but thrusting as he took it, and each
thrust struck home. But those behind filled the gaps, those below
pressed upward stair by stair, and La Mothe, breathless, but without a
scratch, knew what it was to be blood-drunken as the din of steel
filled his ears and he saw the flushed and staring faces opposite rise
minute by minute more level with his own. The three were doing all men
could dare or do, but the end was nearer and nearer with every breath.
The end! God in heaven! No! not that--not that; and in his
drunkenness he dashed a thrust aside as Blaise had done, stabbed as
Blaise had stabbed, and laughed drunkenly that he had sent a soul to
its Maker with all the passions of lust and murder hot upon it; but
happier than Blaise he took no hurt.

"Mademoiselle," said La Follette without turning his head, and speaking
softly to save his breath, "go you and Monseigneur to the corner behind
me," and La Mothe knew that he too saw the coming of the end. There in
the corner, with Love and France behind them, they would make their
last stand.

"I have Monseigneur's dagger," she answered. Again La Mothe understood
the inference left unspoken, understood that she as well as he had
heard the brutal jests which had set his blood boiling. That she had
the dagger was a comfort; but what a splendid courage was hers. Marcel
had even ceased to pray.

For very life's sake La Mothe dared abate the vigilance of neither eye
nor hand, and yet by instinct--there was no sound--he knew they had
risen to obey. By instinct, too, he knew that Ursula de Vesc had drawn
nearer, and it was no surprise to hear her voice behind him. But it
was not to him she spoke.

"Now, Blaise, thrust, thrust!"

There was a rip of torn cloth, a flutter in the air--the flutter as of
a bird on the wing--an upturned point was caught in a tangle of white
linen, and through the tangle B