"A _fico_ for your sword! Again I say, listen. Let us back to the inn and be seen about it. Possibly 'tis not yet closed--you shall pay for a bottle. Then I will depart. Later you, too, can do so. On foot, together or alone, we can escape across the frontier; thus we are safe. In France none can touch us for what we have done amongst these Switzers, or, if they attempt it, let them beware. As for money, you have some I know full well. While he, too, perhaps, has some about him," touching Humphrey's body with the tip of his murderous sword as he spoke. "What! You would rob your victim!" "The spoils of war! Feel for his purse." "Feel for it yourself. I need not money." "I do." Whereon the ruffian calmly knelt down by Humphrey's side, ransacked his clothes and, at last, drew out a fairly well-filled purse which he clinked joyously in front of the lantern. "With this," he said, "we can--I mean, I can--buy me a horse across the frontier or get a seat in some coach, or _patache_ or waggon for France. You need not money, you say. Therefore you, too, can do the same." "Why not take our own horses?" "Because thereby we tell the tale. This butterfly is found here dead; we are gone and our horses, too. What does that point to, _hein?_ Whereas, there is mystery in it if we are also gone without our horses, and he, if dead here, and----" The fellow paused, hearing a slight rustle in the straw and whispered, "Ha! he stirs. 'Tis best to finish the affair," and he lifted his sword. "Nay, fool," said La Truaumont. "'Tis Boisfleury who moves. And--hark--he moans in his insensibility." "Boisfleury! Boisfleury," the other repeated, musing. "Boisfleury. A crafty knave and violent. Listen again," he continued, whispering, "perhaps Boisfleury, too, will die. Then 'twill be thought they have killed each other--Boisfleury's blade is out; he would have maimed the mare. While," and now Fleur de Mai placed a brawny finger on La Truaumont's breast and peered into his eyes, "if he does not die, still," and he tapped the other with the finger, "he will be found here alive. He cannot stir yet. So, too, will that be found," pointing at the reddened straw. "So, too, that," pointing at the bruise on Boisfleury's temple. "You take me? The murder--will--be out. And Boisfleury will--pay--for it. They execute freely here, they say, for any little violence. He will not go scot free. But we shall. Come, man. Come. Away. A flask first and then off--off--to the frontier. And I have this," shaking the purse. "_Pardie!_ the valet pays better than _madame la patronne_. Come." * * * * * * * The eternal clocks told the hours again and again; it was growing late--or early; outside in the street there was now no sound. Perhaps the watch slept, or, if it did not, at least it came not near that stable wherein two men lay. Or where, rather, one man lay against the wall and the other sat up outside a stall peering across the stones at him.