CHAPTER XVI

"Dieu des Dieux!" whispered La Truaumont between pale lips, "it must be done. It will fall to me to do it. Yet the pity of it! He is a young lion and brave as a lion, too; one who, if it is not for me, will have put that luron out of the world for ever ere another moment is past. And I am a gentleman, yet must now stoop to be a murderer. I cannot. I cannot. I, Georges du Hamel, Sieur de la Truaumont! I, to become a murderer!"

In truth, the scene was a weird one on which the pale, trembling man gazed; that man who, in all his adventurous career, had never known what it was to tremble at the most terrible of impending catastrophes: that man who had looked on tremblings and qualms as fit only for women and puling children.

A weird scene, added to and made doubly so by the sickly rays emitted from the lantern behind whose dirty, horn encasement a guttering rush-light burned. Added to, also, in weirdness by the whimpering of the frightened animals who were startled by the clash of steel, and by the grunts of Fleur de Mai as he fought desperately while knowing, feeling sure, that his hour--his moment--was come, and by the occasional contemptuous ejaculations of Humphrey as he bade his opponent take courage since it was but the first bite of the blade which was agony, and to utter a prayer if he knew one.

By now Humphrey had driven the bully into a vacant stall and, having him there, had ceased to lunge at him, but, instead, with his blade crossed over the other's was slowly but surely beating down that other's weapon until the moment came when, swift as the lightning flash, he would run him through. And Fleur de Mai knew that this was so, that it would happen: there needed no jeers from his opponent to tell him what the bite of the steel would feel like. Yet, breathing heavily, his face, nay, his whole body, reeking with the sweat that burst from all his pores, he still endeavoured to save himself, to avert the moment of his doom. As that moment drew near, however, his heart failed him and he shrieked to La Truaumont for assistance, knowing full well that from Boisfleury there was none to be hoped, since he lay stunned outside the next stall and was himself in danger of his life each moment from the hoofs of the excited animal within it.

But from La Truaumont the assistance came not. Rough soldier as the man was, conspirator as he had become, part-assassin of the King as he had proposed and still proposed to be, he could not bring himself to steal up behind the man fighting so gallantly against the great bravo and run him through the back or maim him. He could not force himself to become a common murderer.

"Not yet," La Truaumont whispered to himself. "Not yet. If he kills Fleur de Mai, as he will, then I must engage him, though not until he has had breathing time. But not this way. And--my God!--we have been friends, comrades. Oh! that he had not learnt this secret."

Suddenly, however, he saw that the fight had taken a different turn.

Fleur de Mai, desperate, knowing himself lost, had resorted to one last trick: the last in truth that is left to the swordsman who knows his chance is gone. A trick that may succeed yet is doubly like to fail. One that may save an almost beaten man if it succeeds, but that, in failing, places him in no worse, no more perilous, position than he was before.

Therefore he tried it, doubting yet hoping.

Swiftly, with one last attempt--it was successful!--of escaping his enemy's blade, Fleur de Mai essayed the once well-known botte de lache. He fell to the earth on his left hand, catching himself adroitly on that hand and, ere Humphrey could draw back his weapon to run him through and through, the other had thrust upwards at his conqueror's breast. He had thrust up with all his force and, even as he did so, knew that he had won. With a gasp the young man reeled backwards, staggered against the stable wall and, a moment later, fell to the floor insensible.

"So, so," muttered La Truaumont, "there was no need for me. I am quit of that." After which he stooped over Humphrey's now inert body, tore open his jacket at the breast and, thrusting his hand in over the heart, let it rest there a moment or so. "It beats still," he said. "It is not pierced. Yet, see," and he drew forth the hand and held it up before the other, who, by the miserable light of the horn lantern, saw that it gleamed crimson. "You have given him his death. There is a wound somewhere here big enough to let his life out, to set his soul free. What to do now?"

"Do now!" Fleur de Mai grunted, as he leant, blowing and puffing, against the side of the stall while supporting himself on the handle of his sword, from the point of which the red drops ran down and tinged the straw at his feet. "Do now! Why! Clear ourselves from this, my most noble captain who would not come to a comrade's help in a dire hour."

"I was not wanted. Two men were not needed to kill one. Your own skill has proved that"--"foul blow though it was," he added inwardly. Then he continued, "Best we desert the folle furieuse at once and ride to Paris. De Beaurepaire will absolve us when he knows what we have done to save him, even though we break faith with her. Add to which, we are wanted there and in Normandy. She can do without us, or, at least, she must."

"No, not ride," Fleur de Mai said, while as he spoke he assumed a greater tone of equality with La Truaumont than he had done before, if not a tone of command. For he it was who had vanquished the man who would have undone them, and he was not disposed to regard the accomplishment lightly. "No riding on these horses," glancing his eyes down the line of stalls. "Yet, still, away. To make for, not ride to Paris."

"I understand you not."

"Listen. I will propound to you. Let heaven give you the brains to comprehend."

"Beware. No insolence. I bear a sword more cunning than his," looking down at Humphrey.

"A fico for your sword! Again I say, listen. Let us back to the inn and be seen about it. Possibly 'tis not yet closed--you shall pay for a bottle. Then I will depart. Later you, too, can do so. On foot, together or alone, we can escape across the frontier; thus we are safe. In France none can touch us for what we have done amongst these Switzers, or, if they attempt it, let them beware. As for money, you have some I know full well. While he, too, perhaps, has some about him," touching Humphrey's body with the tip of his murderous sword as he spoke.

"What! You would rob your victim!"

"The spoils of war! Feel for his purse."

"Feel for it yourself. I need not money."

"I do." Whereon the ruffian calmly knelt down by Humphrey's side, ransacked his clothes and, at last, drew out a fairly well-filled purse which he clinked joyously in front of the lantern. "With this," he said, "we can--I mean, I can--buy me a horse across the frontier or get a seat in some coach, or patache or waggon for France. You need not money, you say. Therefore you, too, can do the same."

"Why not take our own horses?"

"Because thereby we tell the tale. This butterfly is found here dead; we are gone and our horses, too. What does that point to, hein? Whereas, there is mystery in it if we are also gone without our horses, and he, if dead here, and----"

The fellow paused, hearing a slight rustle in the straw and whispered, "Ha! he stirs. 'Tis best to finish the affair," and he lifted his sword.

"Nay, fool," said La Truaumont. "'Tis Boisfleury who moves. And--hark--he moans in his insensibility."

"Boisfleury! Boisfleury," the other repeated, musing. "Boisfleury. A crafty knave and violent. Listen again," he continued, whispering, "perhaps Boisfleury, too, will die. Then 'twill be thought they have killed each other--Boisfleury's blade is out; he would have maimed the mare. While," and now Fleur de Mai placed a brawny finger on La Truaumont's breast and peered into his eyes, "if he does not die, still," and he tapped the other with the finger, "he will be found here alive. He cannot stir yet. So, too, will that be found," pointing at the reddened straw. "So, too, that," pointing at the bruise on Boisfleury's temple. "You take me? The murder--will--be out. And Boisfleury will--pay--for it. They execute freely here, they say, for any little violence. He will not go scot free. But we shall. Come, man. Come. Away. A flask first and then off--off--to the frontier. And I have this," shaking the purse. "Pardie! the valet pays better than madame la patronne. Come."

* * * * *

The eternal clocks told the hours again and again; it was growing late--or early; outside in the street there was now no sound. Perhaps the watch slept, or, if it did not, at least it came not near that stable wherein two men lay. Or where, rather, one man lay against the wall and the other sat up outside a stall peering across the stones at him.

"So," that second man said to himself, "'tis Boisfleury who will be found here with him, is it? 'The murder will out, and Boisfleury will pay for it.' Ha! Well, we will see for that."

He rose now from his sitting position, or, instead, he crept upon his hands and knees towards where Humphrey lay, while as he did so he muttered to himself. "No. No. No. The body will not be found. It may be that the murder will not out: that Boisfleury will not pay--for--it! But," and a hideous grin distorted his face which, added to the bruise on his temple, would have made him horrible to the eyes of any who should have beheld him, "others will--others shall. Bel homme," he muttered again, as now he touched Humphrey, "you will never reach Louis the King, but--another--may. And--and--peace to your manes!--what you would have told him shall be told by that other and well told, too. Nought shall be forgotten. Nought. Nought. Messire Fleur de Mai, M. le Capitaine de la Truaumont, Madame la Marquise--bah! Madame la coquine--de Villiers-Bordéville--Monsieur le Prince et Chevalier de Beaurepaire"--hissing out sardonically all these titles and appellations through his white lips as though it gratified him to repeat them to himself, "and you, Jew, call on your friend and master, the Devil, to help you when I tell my tale to the Splendid One."

And again he muttered, "The murder will out, and Boisfleury will pay for it," while, as he did so, he once more snarled like a hunted wolf.

"I cannot feel it beat," he said now, as he placed his hand beneath Humphrey's satin undervest, much as La Truaumont had done some hour or two before, "therefore he is dead. Still, the murder must not out. Boisfleury," he muttered again, as he harped on Fleur de Mai's words, "must not be made to pay for it. No. No. Instead, this murder must be hidden away from all men's knowledge. It must never be known. Never. It is well I was but stunned for a few moments after that blow; that I lay dark and snug and let them fight it through. Well, very well. Thus my skin is safe and the secret is mine."

He rose from the floor and left Humphrey's prostrate body now, and went to the stable door which the other two had closed behind them, and, opening it, peered out into the night. He saw then that all was still dark and black and silent; he also perceived that heavy rain was falling. There was no living thing about; not so much as a houseless dog shivering in any porch or stoop; neither was there any light in any window, nor any sound except the swish of the rain and the noisy swirl of the Rhine as, rushing by, it sped away upon its course towards and past France.

"The murder, for murder it was," he whispered to himself, "will never out. Never. Boisfleury has no reckoning to make, no scot to pay. But others have."

He went back now to where Humphrey lay, and, lifting him up, gradually got him hoisted on his shoulders, for, though neither big and burly as Fleur de Mai nor sinewy and bull-shaped as La Truaumont, he was wiry and strong. Then, going to the stable door again, he pushed it open with his foot, his hands being engaged in holding his burden on his back, and went out into the pitiless rain and so across the place to the high, built-up bank of the river.

"'Twill carry him on swiftly," he whispered to himself, "through ravines and past sunny meads until, at last, it throws him ashore leagues and leagues from here: 'tis better thus than lying in some town fosse or common graveyard. Allez, pauvre homme."

As he spoke he turned his back to the river, leaning downwards against the wooden rails erected to prevent the townspeople or children from falling into it, after which he let go of Humphrey's arms, which he had drawn over his shoulders, gave a strong, swift throw backwards of his body against the rails, and knew that his burden was gone. Gone with one heavy splash into the rushing, tumbling waters beneath; carried away as a cork thrown into those waters would itself have been carried away.

Nor, when he turned round swiftly an instant afterwards, was there any sign of Humphrey. He could not see a human mass rolling over and over in those turbulent, leaping waters, nor a white face gleaming from them, nor any glassy, lifeless eyes glaring up into the leaden skies above. The body was gone and had left no sign behind.

Boisfleury went back now to the stable, and, taking the lantern from the hook on which it hung, placed it on the floor and carefully picked up all the straw tinged or soaked with blood that he could find. Next, he picked up Humphrey's rapier--the cloak, he knew well enough, was on the victim's back excepting that part of it which he had wound tightly round his arm ere he attacked Fleur de Mai. Finally--after having carefully arranged some clean straw in the vacant stall with his hands--while all the time watched by the gleaming, startled eyes of the horses gazing at him over the divisions of the other stalls--he blew out the lamp and, shutting the door behind him, went over to the river again.

"There is no score to pay now," he murmured, as he flung the tinged straw and the rapier into the Rhine. "None, here, in Basle. None by Boisfleury. But elsewhere? And by others! Ah!"