Chicot had hardly finished, when David rushed on him with a savage laugh. The two adversaries were nearly matched in height, but Chicot, who fenced nearly every day with the king, had become one of the most skilful swordsmen in the kingdom. David soon began to perceive this, and he retreated a step. “Ah! ah!” said Chicot, “now you begin to understand. Once more; the papers.” David, for answer, threw himself again upon Chicot, and a new combat ensued. At last Chicot called out,-- “Here is the thrust,” and as he spoke, he thrust his rapier half through his throat. David did not reply, but fell at Chicot’s feet, pouring out a mouthful of blood. But by a natural movement he tried to drag himself towards his bed, so as to defend his secret to the last. “Ah!” cried Chicot, “I thought you cunning, but I see you are a fool. I did not know where the papers were, and you have shown me----” and while David rolled in the agonies of death, he ran to the bed, raised the mattress, and found under it a roll of parchment. At the moment in which he unrolled it to see if it was the document he sought, David raised himself in a rage and then fell back dead. Chicot saw with joy that he held what he wanted. The Pope had written at the bottom, “Fiat ut voluit Deus; Deus jura hominum fecit.” After placing it in his breast, he took the body of the advocate, who had died without losing more blood, the nature of the wound making him bleed inwardly, put it back in the bed, turned the face to the wall, and, opening the door, called Gorenflot. “How pale you are!” said the monk, as he entered. “Yes, the last moments of that man caused me some emotion.” “Then he is dead?” “Yes.” “He was so well just now.” “Too well; he swallowed something difficult of digestion, and died of it.” “The wretch wanted to strangle me, a holy man, and he is punished for it.” “Pardon him, you are a Christian.” “I do, although he frightened me much.” “You must do more; you must light the lamps, and say some prayers by his bed.” “Why?” “That you may not be taken prisoner as his murderer.” “I, a murderer! it was he who tried to murder me.” “Mon Dieu! yes, and as he could not succeed, his rage made him break a blood-vessel. But till your innocence is established they might annoy you much.” “I fear you are right.” “Then do what I tell you. Install yourself here, and recite all the prayers you know, or do not know; then, when evening comes, go out and call at the ironmonger’s at the corner of the street. There you will find your horse; mount him, and take the road to Paris; at Villeneuve-le-Roi sell him, and take Panurge back.” “Ah! that good Panurge; I shall be delighted to see him again. But how am I to live?” Chicot drew from his pocket a handful of crowns and put them into the large hand of the monk. “Generous man!” cried Gorenflot. “Let me stay with you at Lyons; I love Lyons.” “But I do not stay here; I set off at once, and travel too rapidly for you to follow me.”