The pike-wound in his shoulder was slight, but the effort had been supreme; the sweat poured from his brow, his visage was grey and drawn.

Nevertheless, when he had put fifty paces between himself and the buildings of the Arsenal he paused, and turned.

He saw that the men had run to other windows which looked that way; and his face lightened and his form dilated with triumph.
He shook his fist at them.

"Ho, fools!" he cried, "you kill not Tavannes so! Till our next meeting at Montfaucon, fare you well!".