dark grass, with his face against the ground, the poor comte lay, bathed
in his blood. He had remained in the same spot, and did not even seem to
have made the slightest movement. Manicamp threw himself on his knees,
lifted the comte in his arms, and found him quite cold, and steeped in
blood. He let him gently fall again. Then, stretching out his hand and
feeling all over the ground close to where the comte lay, he sought until
he found De Guiche's pistol.

"By Heaven!" he said, rising to his feet, pale as death and with the
pistol in his hand, "you are not mistaken, he is quite dead."

"Dead!" repeated De Wardes.

"Yes; and his pistol is still loaded," added Manicamp, looking into the
pan.

"But I told you that I took aim as he was walking towards me, and fired
at him at the very moment he was going to fire at me."

"Are you quite sure that you fought with him, Monsieur de Wardes? I
confess that I am very much afraid it has been a foul assassination.
Nay, nay, no exclamations! You have had your three shots, and his
pistol is still loaded. You have killed his horse, and he, De Guiche,
one of the best marksmen in France, has not touched even either your
horse or yourself. Well, Monsieur de Wardes, you have been very unlucky
in bringing me here; all the blood in my body seems to have mounted to my
head; and I verily believe that since so good an opportunity presents
itself, I shall blow your brains out on the spot. So, Monsieur de
Wardes, recommend yourself to Heaven."