I knew what I had to do--if I could do it.

He struck again with the steel, and as he bent to blow the tinder into
flame his eye caught the gleam of it on Aunt Jeanne's polished milk-can. I
know not what he thought it. Possibly his nerves were overstrung with what
he had been going through. With an oath he dropped the tinder, and snatched
out a pistol, and fired in the direction of the can. And as the blaze lit
up the great black bulk of him I stood up quickly and fired also,--and,
before God, I think I was justified, for it was his life or ours.

The place bellowed with the shots, and the air was thick with smoke and the
sharp smell of powder. No sound came from the floor, and I stood holding
the pistol by the muzzle to strike him down again if he should rise. But he
did not move, and my fears were not for him.

"Carette!" I cried. "Carette!"

And my love rose suddenly with a cry and fell sobbing into my arms.

"Oh, Phil! Phil! What is it? I thought you were dead."

"Dieu merci, it is he who is dead, I think. We will see," and I managed a
light with my flint and steel and knelt down by the fallen man.

"Who is it?" asked Carette, breathless still.

"It is Monsieur Torode."

"Torode!" she gasped, and bent with me to make sure. "Bon Dieu, how came
he here?"