The Fools Love Story | Page 7

night air, when his ear detects another and nearer sound.
He springs up, and turning finds himself confronted by three masked
men, standing, sword in hand, by the open window through which they
have entered. In an instant he has drawn de Savignon's rapier from its
scabbard.

"How now, my masters," he exclaims, mimicking the Frenchman's
foreign accent, "what do you seek?"
"The Marquis Henri de Savignon" says one, in a voice which the jester
does not recognise.
"I am he," he replies haughtily; "what is your business? Are you
robbers or assassins, that you come in this guise and penetrate at such
an hour into my bedchamber?"
"We bear you news," says the former speaker, delivering 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