"I am--dizzy," replied the poor wretch, whose teeth were chattering and his hair standing on end. "Will you go on?" repeated Gabriel. "Impossible!" said Yvonnet. "I feel as if my feet and hands were leaving the rounds to which they are clinging. I am going to fall." "We will see," said Gabriel. He pulled himself up as far as Yvonnet's waist, and pricked him in the back with the point of his sword. "Can you feel the point of my sword?" he asked. "Yes, Monseigneur! Oh, mercy! I am afraid. Mercy!" "The blade is sharp and keen," continued Gabriel, with marvellous _sang-froid_. "At the least backward movement on your part it will bury itself in your body. Now listen, Yvonnet; Martin-Guerre will pass in front of you and I shall remain behind. If you do not follow Martin-Guerre,--mark well what I say: if you show one symptom of flinching, I swear by God above that you shall not fall and drag others down with you, for I will nail you to the wall with my sword, and hold you there until they have all passed over your body." "Oh, mercy, Monseigneur! I will obey!" cried Yvonnet, cured of one fright by a greater one. "Martin," said Vicomte d'Exmès, "you heard what I said. Pass him and go on." Martin-Guerre in his turn executed the evolution which he had seen his master perform, and assumed the first place. "Forward!" said Gabriel. Martin went bravely up, and Yvonnet, menaced by Gabriel, who carried his sword in his right hand and used only his left to assist his feet in the ascent, forgot his vertigo, and followed the squire. Thus the fourteen men ascended the last one hundred and fifty rounds of the ladder. "_Parbleu_!" thought Martin-Guerre, whose good humor came back to him as he saw the space which separated him from the summit of the tower growing ever less. "_Parbleu_! Monseigneur discovered a sovereign cure for the vertigo." He had just finished that pleasant reflection, when his head reached the level of the edge of the platform. "Is it you?" asked a voice unknown to Martin. "_Parbleu_!" the squire replied in an unembarrassed tone. "It is quite time," rejoined the sentinel, "In less than five minutes the patrol will be making their third round." "Good! we will be ready for them," said Martin-Guerre. As he spoke he triumphantly placed one knee upon the ledge of stone. "Ah!" cried the sentinel, suddenly, trying to get a better view of him in the darkness; "what is your name?" "Why! Martin-Guerre--" He did not finish what he was saying, for Pierre Peuquoy (it was no other than he) gave him no time to put the other knee beside its fellow, but giving him a violent push with both hands, hurled him headlong into the abyss. "Holy Jesus!" was all that poor Martin-Guerre said. Then he fell without a sound, concentrating all his energies in a sublime effort to change the course of his fall so as not to endanger the safety of his companions and his master.