Then he saw a man
with a revolver in one hand, and holding shut with the other a broken
door that someone was trying to open from within. Don Marcelo
recognized him, in spite of his greenish pallor and wild look. It was
Blumhardt--another Blumhardt with a bestial expression of terrifying
ferocity and lust.
Don Marcelo could see clearly how it had all happened--the debauchee
rushing through the castle in search of his prey, the anxious father in
close pursuit, the cries of the girl, the unequal struggle between the
consumptive with his emergency weapon and the warrior triumphant. The
fury of his youth awoke in the old Frenchman, sweeping everything before
it. What did it matter if he did die? . . .
"Ah, you villain!" he yelled, as the poor father had done.
And with clenched fists he marched up to the German, who smiled coldly
and held his revolver to his eyes. He was just going to shoot him . . .
but at that instant Desnoyers fell to the floor, knocked down by those
who were leaping up the stairs. He received many blows, the heavy boots
of the invaders hammering him with their heels. He felt a hot stream
pouring over his face. Blood! . . . He did not know whether it was his
own or that of the palpitating mortal slowly dying beside him. Then
he found himself lifted from the floor by many hands which pushed him
toward a man.
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