Leonard, who knew of no
remedy but brandy, snatched Marcasse's flask out of my hand (not without
swearing and scornfully reproaching me for my flight), forced open his
brother's clinched teeth with the blade of his hunting-knife, and,
in spite of our warning, poured half the flask down his throat. The
wretched man bounded into the air, brandished his arms in desperate
convulsions, drew himself up to his full height, and fell back stone
dead upon the blood-stained floor. There was no time to offer up a
prayer over the body, for the door resounded under the furious blows of
our assailants.
"Open in the King's name!" cried several voices; "open to the police!"
"Help! help!" cried Leonard, seizing his knife and rushing towards the
door. "Peasants, prove yourselves nobles! And you, Bernard, atone for
your fault; wash out your shame; do not let a Mauprat fall into the
hands of the gendarmes alive!"
Urged on by native courage and by pride, I was about to follow his
example, when Patience rushed at him, and exerting his herculean
strength, threw him to the ground. Putting one knee on his chest, he
called to Marcasse to open the door. This was done before I could take
my uncle's part against his terrible assailant. Six gendarmes at once
rushed into the tower and, with their guns pointed, bade us move at our
peril.
"Stay, gentlemen," said Patience, "don't harm any one. This is your
prisoner.
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