But striking the blade in the last fraction of a second,
the Marquis deflected the point from the line of his body, yet not
so completely but that a couple of feet of that hard-driven steel
tore through the muscles of his sword-arm.
To the seconds none of these details had been visible. All that
they had seen had been a swift whirl of flashing blades, and then
Andre-Louis stretched almost to the ground in an upward lunge that
had pierced the Marquis' right arm just below the shoulder.
The sword fell from the suddenly relaxed grip of La Tour d'Azyr's
fingers, which had been rendered powerless, and he stood now
disarmed, his lip in his teeth, his face white, his chest heaving,
before his opponent, who had at once recovered. With the
blood-tinged tip of his sword resting on the ground, Andre-Louis
surveyed him grimly, as we survey the prey that through our own
clumsiness has escaped us at the last moment.
In the Assembly and in the newspapers this might be hailed as another
victory for the Paladin of the Third Estate; only himself could know
the extent and the bitternest of the failure.
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