"The fellow now belongs to me," grimly muttered John. He went to the corner where his tools lay, and arming himself with a bar of iron which he found there, tossed to the Count a sword which hung on the wall, saying, as he did so: "Come, Count of Plouernel; take the weapon, and guard yourself!" "John," shrieked Victoria in terror, "your bar is no match for his saber. You shall not expose your life so!" Plouernel drew the sword from its sheath and prepared to defend himself, while Victoria, unable to intervene, shudderingly followed the duel. "Son of the Nerowegs," cried John, brandishing his bar of iron, "my avenging arm is about to fall upon you." "I await it," coolly replied the Count, putting himself on his guard. The robust iron-worker advanced upon his adversary, describing with his weapon a figure-of-eight so lusty, so rapid, and to which the vigor of his wrist lent such force that, encountering the sword at the moment when the ex-colonel was about to lunge, the iron bar broke down the latter's guard, and descended heavily upon his skull. Almost without losing a drop of blood, and without a single cry, the Count dropped in his tracks, and rolled upon the floor like an ox smitten with a sledge. With a bound Victoria flung herself on her brother's neck, wrapped him in a convulsive embrace, and, suffocated with emotion, broke into tears, unable to utter a word. Partaking of his sister's emotion, John pressed her tenderly to his breast; but their embrace ended in a start as they heard a knock at their room door, and the voice of the porter calling: "Citizen John, if you are abed, rise! They are looking for an Emigrant in the house." The porter had barely uttered these words when John and his sister heard a low moan from the Count of Plouernel. At the same moment the porter called still more loudly, once more knocking at the door. "The wretch is not dead, and we can not give him up," said the workman to his sister, looking at Plouernel. "Citizen John, awake!" it was the porter's voice as he redoubled his knocks. "Here is the commissioner of the Section." "Who is knocking? Who's there?" answered the artisan, with a meaning gesture to his sister, and saying to her, softly: "I'll feign to be waking from a deep sleep. Help me carry the wounded man to your room; for it would be an infamous deed to give up a suffering enemy. I shall say that you are ill in bed, and they will not intrude upon you." "It is I, James," replied the porter. "You sleep a sound sleep, Citizen John. This is the third time I have pounded at your door." "Ah, 'tis you, Father James. I slept so hard I did not hear you. What do you wish?" "The commissioner of the Section and his agents are after an Emigrant. They have already visited three floors; they will doubtless come up to your chamber, as a matter of form. They know well enough that you would never harbor an Emigrant in your place."