The stroke
which would have split Maurice's skull in twain, fell on the
rear of the saddle, and the blade was so firmly imbedded in the
wooden molding that Beauvais could not withdraw it at once.
Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yet Maurice saw his
chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength at the brown
throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's body
stiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched
wildly at the steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it.
A bloody foam gushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he
swayed, and finally tumbled into the road--dead.
As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own
there passed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still
living, dwelt in a lonely convent, thousands of miles away.
Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness
began to steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand
was red, and the blood dripped from his fingers and made round
black spots in the dust of the road. A circle of this blackness
was widening about the head of the fallen man. Maurice watched
it, fascinated.
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