Now I saw.

Before me fully clad in mail was my enemy, de Garcia.

It was HIS sword that by the good providence of God had pierced the breast of the priest.

He had saved me who, had he known, would as soon have turned his steel against his own heart as on that of my destroyer.
I gazed at him, wondering if I dreamed, then my lips spoke, without my will as it were: 'DE GARCIA!' He staggered back at the sound of my voice, like a man struck by a shot, then stared at me, rubbed his eyes with his hand, and stared again.

Now at length he knew me through my paint.
'Mother of God!' he gasped, 'it is that knave Thomas Wingfield, AND I HAVE SAVED HIS LIFE!' By this time my senses had come back to me, and knowing all my folly, I turned seeking escape.