“Ah my master, we have held her, we have guarded her,” he said, “Not a shadow of dishonor has so much as touched her head. Twenty wretches lie below there with the brothers of Germain, Twenty foemen of her honor that I, Enguerrand, have slain. “But one other foe remaineth, one remaineth yet,” he cried, “Which it fits this hand to punish ere you cross unto your bride. It is I, Enguerrand!” shrieked he; “and as I have slain the rest, So I smite this foeman also!”—and his sword plunged through his breast. O the horror of that moment! “Art thou mad my Enguerrand?” Cried his master, striving wildly to withdraw the fatal brand. But the stern youth smiling sadly, started back from his embrace, While a flash like summer lightning, flickered direful on his face. “Yes, a traitor worse than Sassard;” and he pointed down the stair, “For my heart has dared to love her whom my hand defended there. While the others fought for honor, I by passion was made strong, Set your heel upon my bosom for my soul has done you wrong. “But,” and here he swayed and faltered till his knee sank on the floor, Yet in falling turned his forehead ever toward that silent door; “But your warrior hand my master, may take mine without a stain, For my hand has e’er been loyal, and your enemy is slain.”
A short silence followed the last word, then a burst of applause testified to the appreciation of her audience, and Paula crept away to hide her blushing cheeks in the comparative darkness of a little vine-covered balcony that jutted out from the anteroom. What were her thoughts as