Now then the devil may have my soul, for Thou shalt never have it.' The death-rattle was heard in his throat, and Hugh sprang forward to help him: he was still stiffly upright, still looking (though with filmy eyes) at the wall, still trying to shape in words his wicked vaunts.

No words came from him; his jaw dropped before his strong old body.

They brought him the Sacrament; his soul rejected it--too clean food.

Hugh and others about him, all in a sweat, got him down at last.
They anointed him and said a few prayers, for they were in a desperate hurry when it came to the end.

It was near midnight when he died, and at that hour, they terribly report, the wind sprang up and howled about the turrets of Chinon, as if all hell was out hunting for that which he had promised them.