by Clark South
dam' pain'er--"
The next instant the tipsy one was reeling backward into his room underthe impetus of a powerful shove.
"Hey! Wha's idea?" he burbled. "Qui' pushin'--"
"Shut up, you stew-bum! I'm going to sober you up if I have to kill you!You've got a job to do!"
* * * * *
The doctor was a grave, bearded man. At last he rose from besideElaine's straw bed in the fire-gutted chateau.
"How is she, doctor? Is there any hope?" Mark's voice was choked withemotion, his face drawn and haggard with strain.
Slowly, the medical man shook his head.
"I am sorry, _m'sieur_," he said quietly. "I can offer you littlesolace. Her lungs already are filling. I doubt that she can last untilmorning."
The other was breathing hard. His eyes were like fiery gimlets.
"Isn't there anything you can do?" he begged, half-sobbing. "Can't youat least give her something so she'll recover consciousness? I must talkto her--"
"That I can do."
The physician turned back to the bed. Raised the dying girl's head fromthe pallet to administer doses of several medicines.
"I have done all I can," he said. "From here it is in the hands of _LeBon Dieu_."
Dazedly, Mark thanked him. Paid him with coins from Jacques Rombeau'swallet.
The door to the room beyond opened on sagging hinges and Gustav Jerbettestepped out. His eyes still were red-rimmed from drink, but otherwise heappeared sober.
"It's done," he said in a disgusted tone. "Lord knows it looks likenothing in this world or the next, but it's done."
Again Mark dealt out coins.
The old peasant entered the room.
"The baron is furious," he reported grimly. "They are searching everyhut and hovel--"
The doctor shifted his feet nervously.
"Since there is nothing more I can do--" he murmured.
Mark seemed to shake off the strange, dream-like lassitude that grippedhim.
"Of course, gentlemen. All of you have done your best. But there isn'tany need of your staying longer, imperiling your lives by the chances ofBaron Morriere's vengeance. Please leave--and my thanks go with you."
Out they marched, a weird procession: painter, doctor, peasant. Only theold man hesitated at the door.
"God be with you, friend!" he whispered, and pulled the heavy portalshut behind him.
Like a man in a trance, Mark watched them go. His feet were spreadapart; fists clenched. Nor did the Sphinx at Giza look out upon theworld with a face more grey or stony or implacable than was his.
"History!" he cried aloud, and his voice was half-hysterical. "Damnhistory! I'll beat it yet! Those devils shan't have Elaine--"
"Jacques!"
It was Elaine. Wanly she looked up from the pallet where she lay. Triedto force a smile.
Mark dropped to his knees beside her.
"Elaine! My darling!"
The girl raised a hand that trembled. Caressed his forehead.
"Poor Jacques!" she whispered. "He looks so worried; so frightened--"
"And good cause he has, too!"
* * * * *
Mark whirled, every muscle taut, at that harsh voice.
There, in the doorway, backed by his guardsmen, stood the BaronMorriere!
Tension hung over the silence of the room like smoke above abattlefield.
"Did you think you'd get away, you fool?" the noble gloated. "Did youthink you'd escape Raoul Morriere's vengeance?"
Mark was breathing hard. His face was pale, his eyes over-bright. Deepwithin his brain words were pounding, with the beat of a giantsledge....
"_I shall defeat fate!_" those words throbbed. "_I shall rewritehistory! Not as I wanted to. No. But they shall not have Elaine--_"
His hand clashed down, then, as a cobra strikes. Down to the broadbladed knife Jacques Rombeau carried in his belt. All his mind, all hisheart, was concentrated on this one thing: Even though lightning shouldstrike him this very instant, he would seize that knife. Whip it out.Bury it to the hilt in Elaine's breast, that death--not Baron Morriere'sretainers--might claim her!
But his hand clutched empty air. He stared down in shocked incredulity.Stared down, and remembered--
He had given that knife to the old peasant before he went to Paris! Andhe had failed to ask it back!
"Look! He reaches for his knife!" whooped the baron. "He would protecthis sweetheart!"
The guardsmen behind him joined in his roar of laughter.
Something came over Mark Carter in that moment. Something at once coldand deadly, and hotly, fiercely passionate. He felt a kinship to allearth's fighting madmen--the Malay, run amok; the Viking, gone berserk;the Arab, charging through hell to paradise.
Like a human projectile he launched himself, straight for the throat ofBaron Morriere!
"Ai!"
It was not a word, that sound that came from the noble's throat. No.There was something more primitive than that about it.
It was terror, incarnate.
Before the man could move, Mark's fingers were clutching at him, tearinghis clothing and his flesh. Again he screamed.
As one possessed, Mark jerked him from the bosom of his guardsmen.Hurled him bodily across the room, to slam against the farthest wallwith a crash that echoed through the ancient wing.
But now the guardmen's paralysis was broken. They surged forward as oneman.
"Jacques! Look out!"
* * * * *
Elaine's scream lent strength to her lover's arms. He slammed the doorin the face of the oncoming fighters. Half a dozen swords stabbed deepinto its wood, so closely were they upon him. He hurled himself at theportal. Forced it shut by sheer desperation. Slammed home its triplebolts.
He turned, then, his breath coming in great, sobbing gasps.
Baron Morriere had lurched to his feet. His right hand gripped a sword,his left a dagger.
"You'll die yet, you dog!" he snarled. "I'll spit you on my sword like apig above a bed of coals!"
The flames of the pit showed in Mark's eyes.
"And I'll see _you_ in hell," he grated.
With a curse of contempt, the baron charged.
Mark sprang aside.
Again the other rushed to the attack.
Once more Mark dodged. But now desperation gleamed in his eyes. He wasunarmed, helpless. One slip, one misstep, and that cruel blade would pinhim to the wall!
Another rush. Another escape. But this time the blade had come close.Mark's shirt was ripped; his shoulder bleeding from a long scratch.
Even worse: from the end of the room came the sound of splintering woodas the guardsmen smashed in the panels of the door. A moment more andthey would be upon him!
Again the deadly play of wits. And then, suddenly, Mark found himselfpenned in a corner. Trapped. The baron faced him, panting, his facealight with evil joy. And beyond the noble, on her bed of straw, ElaineDuchard stared at her lover with horror-straught eyes.
"Die, you dog!"
The baron lunged. His gleaming sword stabbed for Mark's vitals. Theunarmed man's teeth clenched to the take the fatal blow.
It never came!
One moment the baron was charging. The next, falling.
"Elaine!"
For the girl's white body was sprawled across the floor. Her thin handsstill clutched the baron's ankle.
The next instant her lover was at the noble's throat. His fists beat atattoo of mayhem on the other's face. Forced him back against awindow-sill. Beat him to a senseless, bleeding pulp.
"Jacques!"
He whirled. Saw the door at the far end of the room buckle and give way.
With one sweep of his arms, he sent the baron's body toppling throughthe window. Falling down ... down ... down, to death on the stone-slabwalk three stories below.
Even as he did it, Mark was leaping toward Elaine. He caught her in hisarms and lunged for the room's secon
d door. He made it bare inches aheadof the guardsmen's swords.
This door was lighter. Already it rattled under the blows of the baron'smen.
"Let me die, Jacques!" Elaine whispered. "I know I am going. You neednot try to save me."
"Don't say it!" Mark's voice was a jagged knife of command. "You can'tdie now. Don't say it!"
* * * * *
He carried her, then, to where the picture Gustav Jerbette had paintedstood. A strange picture, for that day and age, for it portrayed MarkCarter and his fiancee, Elaine Duchard, standing side by side in frontof a building clearly identifiable as Professor Duchard's laboratory.And the pair were dressed, not in the garb of eighteenth century France,but in