The violence of my onslaught bore him to the ground, and I, not to release my choking grip, went with him.
For a moment we lay together where we had fallen, his slender body twisting and writhing under me, his swelling face upturned and his protruding, horror-stricken eyes gazing into mine that were fierce and pitiless.

Voices rang above me; someone stooped and strove to pluck me from my victim; then below the left shoulder I felt a sting of pain, first cold then hot, and I knew that I had been stabbed.
Again I felt the blade thrust in, lower down and driven deeper; then, as the knife was for the second time withdrawn, and my flesh sucked at the steel,--the pain of it sending a shudder through me,--the instinct of preservation overcame the sweet lust to strangle Vilmorin.

I let him go and, staggering to my feet, I turned to face those murderers who struck a defenceless man behind.
Swords gleamed around me: one, two, three, four, five, six, I counted, and stood weak and dazed from loss of blood, gazing stupidly at the white blades.

Had I but had my sword I should have laid about me, and gone down beneath their blows as befits a soldier.

But the absence of that trusty friend left me limp and helpless--cowed for the first time since I had borne arms.
Of a sudden I became aware that St.Auban stood opposite to me, hand on hip, surveying me with a malicious leer.