There was a thundering crash of shivered glass and a cool draught of that November night came to sweeten the air that had been fouled by the stamping of the fighters.
Again he swung up his chair and dashed it at the window, and yet again, until no window remained, but a great, gaping opening with a fringe of ragged glass and twisted leadwork.
In that moment Fortunio struggled to his feet, free of the girl, who sank, almost in a swoon.

He sprang towards Garnache.

The Parisian turned and flung his now shattered chair toward the advancing captain.

It dropped at his feet, and his flying shins struck against an edge of it, bringing him, hurt and sprawling, to the ground.

Before he could recover, a figure was flying through the open gap that lately had been a window.
Mademoiselle sat up and screamed.
"You will be killed, Monsieur de Garnache! Dear God, you will be killed!" and the anguish in her voice was awful.
It was the last thing that reached the ears of Monsieur de Garnache as he tumbled headlong through the darkness of the chill November night..