"
The count's hand shook so that he could hardly put his rapier into the
scabbard. With a dazed glance at the marquis, who had not yet stirred,
with another glance at the priest, he passed out, holding the flat of
his hand against his side.
Immediately Brother Jacques bent over the fallen man.
"He lives; that is well. So I must go on to the end."
He poured out some wine and bathed the marquis's temples and wrists.
Next he lifted the old man in his arms and carried him to the bed,
undressed him, and covered him over. He drew a chair to the side of
the bed and sat down, waiting and watching. Occasionally his glance
wandered, to the sinking candles, to the moon outside, from the marbled
face on the pillow to the empty wine-glass on the small table. Once he
recollected seeing an envelope within a hand's span of the glass.
A duel! This palsied old man pressing youth and vigor to the wall! It
seemed incredible. What must this man have been in his prime? Age
vanquishing youth! A shiver ran across Brother Jacques's spine, a
shiver of admiration and wonder. He touched the withered hand which
had but a few moments since been endowed with marvelous skill and
cunning and strength: it was icy and damp.
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