The Fools Love Story | Page 7

the words after the fashion of a man who is reciting a lesson that he has learnt by heart, "we bear you news that your treason is discovered, and in the King's name we bid you prepare to die."
"A merry jest, gentlemen! An artful story! You are certainly no common footpads, but I fear me there is some slight mistake."
"I give you five minutes, by yonder time-piece, wherein to prepare your soul for the next world."
"It is considerate of you, my masters," retorts Kuoni, the mocking spirit of the jester asserting itself, "but the boon is unrequested, and, by your leave, I trust to have many years yet wherein to carry out your amiable suggestion."
"The man is laughing at us," cries one of the hitherto silent assassins. "Let us end the business!"
His companions seek to detain him, but, going forward in spite of them, he crosses swords with Kuoni.
Seeing him engaged, the other two come forward also, and in a few minutes a terrible fight is raging. There is not, perhaps, in the whole of Sachsenberg a finer swordsman than this lithe and agile jester, but the odds are such as no man may hope to strive against victoriously. Before many minutes have elapsed, one of the assassin's swords has passed through his right breast.
With a groan he sinks forward in a heap, and the sword he lately held bounds with a noisy ring upon the parquet floor.
Hurrying steps are heard outside the room, and presently voices are discernible, as the household, disturbed by the clash of steel and the din of struggle, is hurrying towards De Savignon's room.
One of the assassins is on the point of going forward to make sure of their work, by driving his dagger into the heart of the prostrate man, when, alarmed by the approaching sounds and mindful of their orders not to allow themselves on any account to be taken, the other two drag him off through the window before he can accomplish his design.
"Come," says he who delivered the fatal blow, "he will be dead in a few minutes. That stroke never yet left a man alive."
An instant later the door of the room is burst violently open, and just as the murderers disappear into the night a curious group of half-clad men and women with frightened faces stand awe-stricken on the threshold, gazing at the spectacle before them.
"The Marquis has been slain," cries a voice, which is followed by a woman's shriek, and as the crowd divides, the old, white-haired Count of Lichtenau enters the room followed by his half-fainting daughter.
Together they stand gazing at the body on the floor, and at the dark crimson stain which is slowly spreading about it.
Then suddenly--
"Henri!" shrieks the girl, and rushing forwards, she falls on her knees beside the unconscious Kuoni. Then, as her father gently turns the body over to ascertain the nature of his hurt, another and different cry escapes her. But the jester reviving, and opening his eyes at the sound, meets her gaze and whispers faintly--
"Hush, my lady! do not say that I am not the Marquis. As you value his life, keep silent and let all believe and spread the report that the Marquis is dying."
"What does it mean? what does it mean?" she wails, wringing her hands, yet, with quick instinct, understanding that serious motives have dictated Kuoni's words.
"Send them away--your father also--I will explain," gasps the jester, and at each word he utters the blood wells forth from his wound.
When all have withdrawn, and when she has raised his head and pillowed it in her lap, he tells her all, bidding her not to allow the real truth of the matter to transpire until morning.
"And you, YOU, Kuoni, of all men, who have ever seemed to hate him, you have so nobly given your life to buy his safety!" she exclaims.
"No, my lady, I have not," he answers; "I have given my life not for him but for you. I wished to save him because you loved him. And because I wished to spare you the anguish of beholding his dead body, I have changed places with him. His life is valuable to some one--mine is worthless."
The girl can find no words wherein to answer fittingly, but her tears are falling fast and they are eloquent to him. She understands at last!
"I am so happy," he murmurs presently, "oh, so happy! Had I lived my head would never have been pillowed on your knee. Had I lived, I should never have dared to tell you--as I do now, when in the presence of death all differences of birth and station fade away--that I love you."
The girl trembles violently; then for a second their eyes meet. She were not a woman did her heart not swell with fondness