not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . not
very well, either." He steadied himself by catching hold of the table.
The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool on
the clay. "Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbled
verses. Bah! I have come the ragged way, and by the ragged way I go.
. . . It is a pity: either men should be born blind or women without
beauty. The devil of the priests is in it all. And this is what love
does!"

The door darkened again, and the Chevalier, Nicot, Father Chaumonot and
four soldiers came in hurriedly. The Chevalier was first. With a cry
he dropped beside Victor.

"Lad, lad!" he cried in anguish. "Speak to me, lad!" He touched the
poet's hands, and rose. Like an angry lion he faced the vicomte.

"Ha!" said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealing
away his senses. "So it is you? I had each hair on your head separate
and standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad. To have come
all this way and to have stopped a moment too long! That is what they
call irony. But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meet
you once again with the sword. You have always plucked the fruit out
of my grasp. We walked together, but the sun was always on you and the
cloud on me. Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no real
enmity toward him. . . . He was your friend. He will write no more
ballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . . Well, in a
moment," as if he heard a voice calling. He balanced himself with
difficulty.

Life returned to madame. Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling to
him wildly, fondled his head, shook his warm but nerveless hands,
kissed his damp forehead, her tears falling on his yellow hair.

"He is gone!" she said piteously. "Victor is dead; he will not speak.
Poor boy, poor boy!"

They were strong men; the tender quick of pity had grown thick. Yet
they turned away. Father Chaumonot raised her gently.

"Yes, my daughter, he is dead. God will deal kindly with him, brave
boy."

"Dead . . . as I shall soon be." The vicomte's dulling eyes roved from
one face to another till they rested on madame. "He will sing no more;
he will not fly southward this winter, nor next. Ah, Madame, will you
forget that kiss? I believe not. Listen: . . . I did not kiss simply
your lips; 'twas your memory. Ever shall that kiss stand between you
and your lover's lips."

"It