"Morbleu! is it a shambles?"

"That is wine," I said.

"They spilled wine for effect, they spilled so little blood!" Thus
Lucas, speaking with as cool devilry as if he still commanded the
situation. Vigo could not know what he meant but he asked no questions;
instead, bade Lucas hold his tongue.

"I am dumb," Lucas rejoined, with a mock meekness more insolent than
insolence. But we paid it no heed for M. le Comte came forward out of
the shadows. He held his head well up but his face was white above his
crimsoned doublet.

"M. Etienne! Are you hurt?" shouted Vigo.

"No, but he is." M. le Comte stepped aside to show us Grammont leaning
against the wall.

"Ah!" cried Vigo, triumphantly. He and two of the men rushed at Gervais.

"You would not take me so easily but for a cursed knife in my back,"
Grammont muttered thickly. "For the love of Heaven, Vigo, draw it out."

With amazement Vigo perceived the knife.

"Who did it?"

"I."

"You, Felix? In the back?" Vigo looked at me as if to demand again which
side I was on.

"He lay on me, throttling me," I explained. "I stabbed any way I
could."

"I trow you are a dead man," Vigo told Grammont. "Natheless, here comes
the knife."

It came, with a great cry from the victim. He fell back against Vigo's
man, clapping his hand to his side.

"I am done for," he gasped faintly.

"That is well," said Vigo, carefully wiping off the knife.

"Yon is the scoundrel," Grammont gasped, pointing to Lucas.

"He will die a worse death than you," said Vigo.

Grammont looked from the one to the other of us, the sullen rage in his
face fading to a puzzled helplessness. He said fretfully:

"Which--which is Etienne?"

He could no longer see us plain. M. le Comte came forward silently.
Grammont struggled for breath in a way pitiable to see. I put my arm
about him and helped the guardsman to hold him straighter. He reached
out his hand and caught at M. le Comte's sleeve.

"Etienne--Etienne--pardon. It was wrong toward you--but I never had the
pistoles. He called me thief--the duke. I beseech--your--pardon."

M. le Comte was silent.

"It was all Lucas--Lucas did it," Grammont muttered with stiffening
lips. "I am sorry for--it. I am dying--I cannot die--without a chance.
Say you--for--give--"

Still M. le Comte held back, silent. Treachery was no less treachery
though Grammont was dying. All the more that they were cousins,
bedfellows, was the injury great to forgive. M.