Back, step by step, he was forced, till he felt his shoulders touch the
wall. He was beginning to suffer cruelly. A warmth on his side told
him that his old wound had opened and was bleeding. Good God! and if
this old man at whom he had laughed should kill him! With a desperate
return he succeeded in regaining the open. He tried the offensive, it
was too late. The marquis, describing a circle, toppled over a candle,
which rolled across the floor and was snuffed in its own melting wax.
The marquis's eyes burned like carbuncles; his blade was like living
light. He spoke.
"I am old; beware of old dogs that have teeth."
Round and round they circled, back and forth. D'Herouville was
fighting for his life. His own wonderful mastery, and this alone, kept
the life in his body. Sometimes it seemed that he must be in a dream,
the victim of some terrible nightmare. For the marquis's face did not
look human, animated as it was with the lust to kill.
"God!" burst from the count's cracked lips. His sword was rolling at
his feet. It was the end. He shut his eyes.
The marquis drew back his arm to send the blade home, and there came a
change.
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