"Take care! Take care!" but no one of us
was closer than thirty yards to Gaston or the boar either. As the
creature raised himself to bury his tusks in his enemy, I saw Gaston,
with the quickness of thought, drop the spear from his left hand, and
drawing his hunting knife with his right hand, plunge it once, twice,
thrice in the boar's throat. These powerful thrusts were the beast's
deathblow, but he was still capable of killing Gaston Cheverny, had
there been the least remission in those tremendous strokes with the
hunting knife. By that time we were on the ground close to him, and I
was about to use my spear when Count Saxe motioned me away. The boar,
although still fighting savagely, was clearly overmastered; a dozen
dogs were tearing at him from behind.

It would have been an outrage to interfere then, so we stood ready for
emergencies, while Gaston, with the assistance of the dogs, despatched
the huge beast. The huntsmen were all on hand then, and when, at last,
the great carcass fell over, they surrounded Gaston with shouts of
delight. He was covered with blood, but had not a scratch on him. He
could not explain how the boar got so close to him, except that he was
listening to the dogs in the distance, and the first thing he knew he
was looking down the boar's throat. The next thing he remembered, was
the plunging of his knife into the beast's throat, time after time.
Like all truly brave men Gaston did not try to make out the accidents
of good fortune as deliberately planned by him. But seldom have I, in
war or sport, seen greater courage, address and strength than Gaston
Cheverny showed on this occasion.

Count Saxe congratulated him warmly, reminding him of that other
occasion when by his quickness he had passed himself off for Count
Saxe, and so had earned for himself seven years of captivity, but had
saved Count Saxe. Gaston received this and all our congratulations
with becoming modesty. He turned away from our praises to give liberal
drink-money to the huntsmen, who were delighted beyond reason at the
killing of the old "solitary," and that, too, without a man or a dog
being injured. It was then determined to return to Chambord, whose
distant towers glowed in the sun.

Gaston, as may be imagined, was in a very wretched condition. He
washed off some of the blood in the little brook, threw away his
handsome hunting coat, borrowed a jacket from one of the huntsmen, and
we set off at a smart pace toward the