the much that he had schemed against me. Of what
his fate would be he could have no shadow of doubt. He knew--none
better--how truly the King loved me, and how he would punish such
an attempt as had been made upon my life, to say nothing of the
prostitution of justice of which he had been guilty, and for which alone
he had earned the penalty of death.

He stood a moment with bent head, the pain of his arm possibly forgotten
in the agony of his spirit. Then, straightening himself suddenly, with
a proud, half scornful air, he looked the officer straight between the
eyes.

"You desire my sword, monsieur?" he inquired.

The musketeer bowed respectfully.

"Saint-Eustache, will you do me the favour to give it to me?"

And while the Chevalier picked up the rapier from the ground where it
had been flung, that man waited with an outward calm for which at the
moment I admired him, as we must ever admire a tranquil bearing in one
smitten by a great adversity. And than this I can conceive few
greater. He had played for much, and he had lost everything. Ignominy,
degradation, and the block were all that impended for him in this world,
and they were very imminent.

He took the sword from the Chevalier. He held it for a second by the
hilt, like one in thought, like one who is resolving upon something,
whilst the musketeer awaited his good pleasure with that deference which
all gentle minds must accord to the unfortunate.

Still holding his rapier, he raised his eyes for a second and let them
rest on me with a grim malevolence. Then he uttered a short laugh, and,
shrugging his shoulders, he transferred his grip to the blade, as if
about to offer the hilt to the officer. Holding it so, halfway betwixt
point and quillons, he stepped suddenly back, and before any there could
put forth a hand to stay him, he had set the pummel on the ground and
the point at his breast, and so dropped upon it and impaled himself.

A cry went up from every throat, and we sprang towards him. He rolled
over on his side, and with a grin of exquisite pain, yet in words of
unconquerable derision "You may have my sword now, Monsieur l'Officier,"
he said, and sank back, swooning.

With an oath, the musketeer stepped forward. He obeyed Chatellerault to
the letter, by kneeling beside him and carefully withdrawing the sword.
Then he ordered a couple of his men to take up the body.

"Is he dead?" asked some one; and some one else replied, "Not yet, but
he s