He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conquered champion. His eyes were closed⁠—the dark red flush was still on his brow. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened⁠—but they were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way to the pallid hue of death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.

“This is indeed the judgment of God,” said the Grand Master, looking upwards⁠—“ Fiat voluntas tua! ”