At the very moment when victory must have been his, he
staggered, a black mist filming his eyes. The magic blade slipped from
his grasp and clanged to the floor. He tried to save himself, but he
could not. He fell by the side of his sword and lay there silent. His
strength, had been superhuman, the last flare of a burnt-out fire.
"Good God, and I never touched him!" gasped, D'Herouville. He was
covered with a cold sweat. "A moment more and I had been a dead man!"
He brushed his eyes, and his hand shook with a transient palsy.
There was a tableau: the aged noble stretched out beside his rapier,
D'Herouville leaning against the wall and wild-eyed . . . and a
black-robed figure standing in the doorway.
"Have you killed him?" asked the black-robed figure, stepping into the
room.
D'Herouville gazed at him, incapable of speaking.
"Have you killed him, I say?" repeated Brother Jacques.
D'Herouville choked, and presently found his voice. "I have not even
touched him. God is witness! He has been stricken by a vapor, or he
is dead."
"It is well for you, Monsieur, that your sword did not touch him. You
had better go.
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