Antragues picked up his own sword, which he had dropped, then that of Quelus, which he presented to him. A tear shone in the eyes of the dying man. “We might have been friends,” he murmured. “Now fly,” said Chicot; “you are worthy of being saved.” “And my companions?” “I will take care of them, as of the king’s friends.” Antragues wrapped himself in a cloak which his squire handed to him, so that no one might see the blood with which he was covered, and, leaving the dead and wounded, he disappeared through the Porte St. Antoine. CHAPTER XCVII. THE END. The king, pale with anxiety, and shuddering at the slightest noise, employed himself in conjecturing, with the experience of a practised man, the time that it would take for the antagonists to meet and that the combat would last. “Now,” he murmured first, “they are crossing the Rue St. Antoine--now they are entering the field--now they have begun.” And at these words, the poor king, trembling, began to pray. Rising again in a few minutes, he cried: “If Quelus only remembers the thrust I taught him! As for Schomberg, he is so cool that he ought to kill Ribeirac; Maugiron, also, should be more than a match for Livarot. But D’Epernon, he is lost; fortunately he is the one of the four whom I love least. But if Bussy, the terrible Bussy, after killing him, falls on the others! Ah, my poor friends!” “Sire!” said Crillon, at the door. “What! already?” “Sire, I have no news but that the Duc d’Anjou begs to speak to your majesty.” “What for?” “He says that the moment has come for him to tell you what service he rendered your majesty, and that what he has to tell you will calm a part of your fears.” “Well, let him come.” At this moment they heard a voice crying, “I must speak to the king at once!” The king recognized the voice, and opened the door. “Here, St. Luc!” cried he. “What is it? But, mon Dieu! what is the matter? Are they dead?” Indeed, St. Luc, pale, without hat or sword, and spotted with blood, rushed into the king’s room. “Sire!” cried he, “vengeance! I ask for vengeance!” “My poor St. Luc, what is it? You seem in despair.” “Sire, one of your subjects, the bravest, noblest, has been murdered this night--traitorously murdered!” “Of whom do you speak?” “Sire, you do not love him, I know; but he was faithful, and, if need were, would have shed all his blood for your majesty, else he would not have been my friend.” “Ah!” said the king, who began to understand; and something like a gleam of joy passed over his face. “Vengeance, sire, for M. de Bussy!” “M. de Bussy?” “Yes, M. de Bussy, whom twenty assassins poniarded last night. He killed fourteen of them.” “M. de Bussy dead?” “Yes, sire.” “Then he does not fight this morning?” St. Luc cast a reproachful glance on the king, who turned away his head, and, in doing so, saw Crillon still standing at the door. He signed to him to bring in the duke.