Pierre still
looked at him, his eyes half closed now.
Philip bent close down.
"Tell him," he said, "that I am on the trail of Lord Fitzhugh!"
Scarcely had he uttered the name when Pierre's closing eyes shot
open. A groaning cry burst from his lips, and, as if that name had
aroused the last spark of life and strength within him into
action, he wrenched himself from Philip's arms, striving to speak.
A trickle of fresh blood ran over his face. Incoherent sounds
rattled in his throat, and then, overcome by his effort, he
dropped back unconscious. Philip wound his handkerchief about the
wounded man's head and straightened out his limbs. Then he rose to
his feet and reloaded his revolver. His hands were steady now. His
brain was clear; the enervating thrill of excitement had gone from
his body. Only his heart beat like a racing engine.
He turned and ran in the direction which Pierre's assailants had
taken, his head lowered, his revolver held in front of him, on a
level with his breast. He had not gone a hundred yards when
something stopped him. In his path, with its face turned straight
up to the moonlit sky, lay the body of a man. For an instant
Philip bent over it. The broken blade of Pierre's rapier glistened
under the man's throat.
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