close to the elbow joint but just above it—De Jarnac turned on the instant deadly pale, for he thought all was over—but he erred widely, for De La-Hirè had calculated well his action and his time, and that which threatened to destroy him proved, as he meant it, his salvation—for as quick as light when he felt the wound he dropped his own rapier, and grasping Armand’s guard with his right hand, he snapped the blade short off in his own mangled flesh and bounded five feet backward, with the broken fragment still sticking in his arm. “Hold!” shouted each godfather on the instant—and at the same time De La-Hirè exclaimed, “give us the other swords—give us the other swords, De Jarnac—” The exchange was made in a moment, the stilettoes and the broken weapons were gathered up, and the heavy horse-swords given to the combatants, who again faced each other with equal resolution, though now with altered fortunes. “Now De La-Hirè,” exclaimed De Jarnac, as he put the well poised blade into his friend’s hand—“you managed that right gallantly and well—now fight the quick fight, ere you shall faint from pain and bleeding!”—and it was instantly apparent that such was indeed his intention—his eye lightened, and he looked like an eagle about to pounce upon his foe, as he drew up his form to its utmost height and whirled the long new blade about his head as though it had been but a feather. Far less sublime and striking was the attitude and swordsmanship of De Laguy, though he too fought both gallantly and well. But at the fifth pass, feinting at his head, Charles fetched a long and sweeping blow at his right leg, and striking him below the ham, divided all the tendons with the back of the double-edged blade—then springing in before he fell, plunged his sword into his body, that the hilt knocked heavily at his breast bone and the point came out glittering between his shoulders—the blood flashed out from the deep wound, from nose, and ears, and mouth, as he fell prostrate, and Charles stood over him, leaning on his avenging weapon and gazing sadly into his stiffening features—“Fetch him a priest,” exclaimed De Nevers—“for by my halidome he will not live ten minutes.” “If he live _five_,” cried the King rising from his seat—“if he live _five_, he will live long enough to die upon the block—for he lies there a felon and convicted traitor, and by my soul he shall die a felon’s doom—but bring him a priest quickly.” The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the dying man, and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes, and called upon him to repent and to confess as he would have salvation. Faint and half choked with blood he faltered forth the words—“I do—I do confess guilty—oh! double guilty!—pardon! oh God—Charles!—Marguerite!”—and as the words died on his quivering lips he sank down fainting with the excess of agony.