in, "that Boucher
is approaching exhaustion. Perhaps not another man in the world could
have withstood his tremendous offense so well, but the singular hunter
seems to be one man in a world, at least with the sword. Now, the
seconds will give them a little rest before they close once more, and,
I think, for the last time."

"For God's sake, de Galisonniere, cease! It's bad enough without your
unholy glee!"

"'Bad enough' and 'unholy glee,' de Courcelles! Not at all! It's very
well, and my pleasure is justified. I fear that villany is not always
punished as it should be, and seldom in the dramatic manner that leaps
to the eye and that has the powerful force of example. Ah, a foul blow
before the seconds gave the word! Boucher has gone mad! But you and I
won't trouble ourselves about him, since he will soon pay for it. I
think I see a change in the hunter's eye. It has grown uncommonly stern
and fierce. He has the look of an executioner."

De Galisonniere had read aright. When the treacherous blow was dealt and
turned aside barely in time, Willet's heart hardened. If Boucher lived
he would live to add more victims to those who had gone before. The
man's whole fiber, body and mind, was poison, nothing but poison, and
the murdered three whom Willet had known cried upon him to take
vengeance. He began to press the bravo and Boucher's followers were
silent. De Galisonniere was not the only one who had marked the change
in the hunter's eye.

"You will note, de Courcelles," said he, "that your man, Boucher, has
thrown his life away."

"He's not my man, de Galisonniere!"

"You compel me to repeat, de Courcelles, that your man, Boucher, has
thrown away his own life. It's not well to deal a foul blow at a
consummate swordsman. But I suppose it's hard for a murderer to change
his instincts. Ah, what a stroke! What a stroke! It was so swift that I
saw only a flash of light! And so, our friend, Boucher, has sped! And
when you seek the kernel of the matter, de Courcelles, it was you who
helped to speed him!"

De Courcelles, unable to bear more, strode away. Boucher was lying upon
his back, and the bravo had fought his last fight. Willet looked down at
him, shook his head a little, but he did not feel remorse. The ghosts of
the untrained boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man, Raoul de
Bassempierre, and of Raymond de Neville, who had been murdered at dice,
guided his hand, and it was they who had struck the blow. Robert helped