n the two
men, facing the Englishman. She staggered back, brought her hand to her
neck, drew herself up, spun round on her heels and fell at Lupin's feet.

"Raymonde!--Raymonde!"

He threw himself upon her, took her in his arms and pressed her to him.

"Dead--" he said.

There was a moment of stupefaction. Shears seemed confounded by his own
act. Victoire stammered:

"My poor boy--my poor boy--"

Beautrelet went up to the young woman and stooped to examine her. Lupin
repeated:

"Dead--dead--"

He said it in a reflective tone, as though he did not yet understand.
But his face became hollow, suddenly transformed, ravaged by grief. And
then he was seized with a sort of madness, made senseless gestures,
wrung his hands, stamped his feet, like a child that suffers more than
it is able to bear.

"You villain!" he cried, suddenly, in an access of hatred.

And, flinging Shears back with a formidable blow, he took him by the
throat and dug his twitching fingers into his flesh.

The Englishman gasped, without even struggling.

"My boy--my boy--" said Victoire, in a voice of entreaty.

Beautrelet ran up. But Lupin had already let go and stood sobbing
beside his enemy stretched upon the ground.

O pitiful sight! Beautrelet never forgot its tragic horror, he who knew
all Lupin's love for Raymonde and all that the great adventurer had
sacrificed of his own being to bring a smile to the face of his
well-beloved.

Night began to cover the field of battle with a shroud of darkness. The
three Englishmen lay bound and gagged in the tall grass. Distant songs
broke the vast silence of the plain. It was the farm-hands returning
from their work.

Lupin drew himself up. He listened to the monotonous voices. Then he
glanced at the happy homestead of the Neuvillette, where he had hoped
to live peacefully with Raymonde. Then he looked at her, the poor,
loving victim, whom love had killed and who, all white, was sleeping
her last, eternal sleep.

The men were coming nearer, however.

Then Lupin bent down, took the dead woman in his powerful arms, lifted
the corpse with a single effort and, bent in two, stretched it across
his back:

"Let us go, Victoire."

"Let us go, dear."

"Good-bye, Beautrelet," he said.

And, bearing his precious and awful burden followed by his old servant,
silent and fierce he turned toward the sea and plunged into the
darkness of the night.

THE END

End of the Project