"
And he threw up the front of Barbemouche's hat with one hand, at the same
time raising the front of his own with the other. The two men regarded
each other for a moment.
"Praise to the God of Israel, we meet again!" cried Blaise, in a loud
voice, catching the other by the throat.
"Who are you?" demanded Barbemouche.
"The man on whom you left this mark,"--and Blaise pointed to his own
forehead,--"in Paris on St. Bartholomew's night thirteen years ago."
"Then I did not kill you?" muttered Barbemouche, glaring fiercely
at Blaise.
"God had further use for me," said Blaise.
De Berquin and I both stepped aside, perceiving that here was a matter in
which neither of us was concerned. But we looked on with some interest,
deferring until its adjustment our own conversation.
"Then it was you who spoiled my appearance for the rest of my days!"
cried Barbemouche. "May you writhe in the flames of hell!"
And, being without sword or other weapon, he aimed a blow of the fist at
Blaise's head. Blaise, disdaining to use steel against an unarmed
antagonist, contented himself with dodging the blow and dragging
Barbemouche to a place where an opening in the courtyard wall overlooked
a steep, rocky descent which was for some distance without vegetation.
Here the two men grappled. There was some hard squeezing, some quick
bending either way, a final powerful forcing forward of the arms on the
part of Blaise, a last violent propulsion of the same arms, and
Barbemouche was thrown backward down the precipice.
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