By this time the ground was strewn with the dead and wounded of their
assailants, and, save for the slight scratch on Nevers's forehead, the
defenders were unhurt. The galloping of horses was now distinctly heard,
and the sound was as displeasing to the bravos as it was delightful to
Lagardere.
Delightful, indeed, for the sake of his companion, whom he was so hot to
save. Otherwise, Lagardere, so far as he had clearness enough to think
coherently at all, thought that he had never lived, had never hoped to
live, through moments so delightful. To be in the thick of such a brawl,
to be fighting side by side with the best swordsman in all France against
what might well be considered overwhelming odds, and to be working havoc
and disaster among his antagonists, stirred Lagardere's blood more
blithely than ripe wine. He had fought good fights before now, but never
such a fight as this, in the black and dark night, with the dim air thick
with hostile swords, and the night wind singing songs of battle in his
ears. To live like this was to be very much alive; this had a zest denied
to any calmly planned duello; this had a poetry fiercer and finer than
the shock of action in the daylit lanes of war.
He called merrily to the bravos to renew their assault, but the bravos
hung back discouraged; even the murder-zeal of Æsop had flagged. Then, in
an instant, the attacked became the attackers, on the impulse of Nevers.
Shouting anew the motto of his house, "I am here!" he leaped lightly over
the rampart of hay, soliciting the swords of his foemen. Lagardere
followed his example in an instant, and the pair now carried the war into
the enemies' country, charging the staggered assassins, who scattered
before them. Lagardere drove some half a dozen of the rogues, including
Staupitz and the discomfited Æsop, towards the bridge. Nevers, nearer to
the castle, struck down in quick succession two of the ruffians that were
rash enough to stand their ground, and stood for the moment alone and
unassailed, the master of his part of the field.
Noiselessly behind him the little postern of Caylus opened. Noiselessly
two shadows emerged, both masked and both holding drawn swords. Though it
was still all blackness under the walls of the castle, there was now a
little light in the sky, where a pale moon swam like a golden ship
through wave after wave of engulfing cloud. The pair paused for a moment,
as if to make sure that indeed their auxiliaries were being routed. Then
the foremost shadow glided quietly close to Nevers, where he stood
flushed with victory.
"I am here!" Nevers cried, exulting, as he waved his conquering sword and
looked in vain for an antagonist.
"I am here!" repeated the shadow behind him, mockingly, and thrust his
weapon deep into the victor's side. Nevers reeled before the suddenness
and sureness of the stroke, and fell on his knees to the ground with a
great cry that startled Lagardere and stayed him in his triumph. Nevers,
striving to rise, turned his face against his treacherous enemy, and
seemed to recognize the shadow in spite of its masked visage.
"You!" he gasped--"you, for whom I would have given my life!"
"Well, I take it," the shadow whispered, grimly, and stabbed him again.
Nevers fell in a huddle to the earth, but he raised his dying breath in a
cry.
"Help, Lagardere! help! Save the child! Avenge me!"
Then he died. Though the assassin stabbed again, he only stabbed a
corpse. Lagardere, who was brooming his foes before him as a gardener
brooms autumnal leaves from grass, had been arrested in his course by the
first cry of the wounded Nevers. While he paused, his antagonists,
rallying a little and heartened by their numbers, made ready for a fresh
attack. Then, swiftly, came Nevers's last wild call for help, and
Lagardere, with a great fear and a great fury in his heart, turned from
the steps leading to the bridge and made to join his comrade. But the
clustering swordsmen heard that cry, too, and found new courage in the
sound. It meant that one of the demi-gods with whom, as it seemed, they
were warring, was now no more than common clay, and that there was good
hope of ending the other. They came together; they came upon Lagardere;
they strove to stay him in his way. They might as well have tried to stay
a hurricane. Lagardere beat them back, cut them down, and swept through
their reeling line to the spot where Nevers was lying.
"I am here!" he shouted, and faced the masked shadow. "Murderer, you hide
your face, but you shall bear my mark, that I may know you when we meet
again."
The slayer of Nevers had stood on guard by the side of his victim when
Lagardere came towards him. By his side the masked companion extended a
cautious blade. In one wild second Lagardere beat down the slayer's sword
and wounded the unknown man deeply on the wrist. The assassin's sword
fell from his hand, and the assassin, with a cry of rage, retreated into
the darkness. Lagardere had only time to brand the traitor; he had not
the time to kill him. Looking swiftly about him, he saw that his
vengeance must be patient if he were to save his skin from that shambles.
The sword of the satellite defended the master; other swords began to
gleam anew. From all the quarters of that field of fight the bravos were
gathering again, all there were left of them, and Lagardere was now
alone. With the activity of the skilled acrobat he leaped backward to the
cart, and, while he still faced his enemies and while his terrible sword
glittered in ceaseless movement, he snatched the child from the
sheltering hay with his left hand, and, turning, began to run at his full
speed towards the bridge. There were bravos in his path that thought to
stay him, but they gave way before the headlong fury of his rush as if
they believed him to be irresistible, and he reached the steps in
safety.
Once there he turned again and raised his sword in triumph, while he
cried, fiercely: "Nevers is dead! Long live Nevers!"
By now the galloping of horses sounded loud as immediate thunder, and
even as Lagardere spoke a number of shadowy horsemen had occupied the
bridge behind him, and those in the moat could see above them the glint
of levelled muskets. The servant shadow held the postern open with a
trembling hand to harbor the survivors of the strife. But the man that
had killed Nevers, the man that Lagardere had branded, had still a hate
to satisfy.
"A thousand crowns," he cried, "to the man who gets the child!"
Not a man of all the baffled assassins answered to that challenge.
Standing upon the steps of the bridge, Lagardere caught it up.
"Seek her behind my sword, assassin! You wear my mark, and I will find
you out! You shall all suffer! After the lackeys, the master! Sooner or
later Lagardere will come to you!"