--a man's white beard.

Next instant there was a sharp sting in his right shoulder. The knife
had missed his breast--the sudden swerving had saved him. Even as it
struck, he threw himself on his assailant. Then came a struggle. The
long fingers of the man with the white beard clove to the knife like a
dead soldier's to the handle of a sword. Twice Detricand's hand was
gashed slightly, and then he pinioned the wrist of his enemy, and tripped
him up. The miscreant fell half across the opening in the floor. One
foot, hanging down, almost touched the running water.

Detricand had his foe at his mercy. There was the first inclination to
drop him into the stream, but that was put away as quickly as it came.
He gave the wretch a sudden twist, pulling him clear of the hole, and
wrenched the knife from his fingers at the same moment.

"Now, monsieur," said he, feeling for a light, "now we'll have a look at
you."

The figure lay quiet beneath him. The nervous strength was gone, the
body was limp, the breathing was laboured. The light flared. Detricand
held it down, and there was revealed the haggard, malicious face of
Olivier Delagarde.

"So, monsieur the traitor," said Detricand--" so you'd be a murderer too
--eh?"

The old man mumbled an oath.

"Hand of the devil," continued Detricand, "was there ever a greater beast