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Chapter 11
Alas!Itwashisclownishnessthatundidme.WhenIhadplayedwithhimandlaughedathimforahandfulofsecondsfortheclumsyboorhewas,hebecamesoangeredthatheforgottheworsethanlittlefenceheknew.Withanarm-widesweepofhisrapier,asthoughitboreheftandacuttingedge,hewhistleditthroughtheairandrappeditdownonmycrown.Iwasinamaze.Neverhadsoabsurdathinghappenedtome.Hewaswideopen,andIcouldhaverunhimthroughforthright.But,asIsaid,Iwasinamaze,andthenextIknewwasthepangoftheenteringsteelasthisclumsyprovincialranmethroughandchargedforward,bull-like,tillhishiltbruisedmysideandIwasbornebackward.
AsIfellIcouldseetheconcernonthefacesofLanfrancandBohemondandtheglutofsatisfactioninthefaceofdeVillehardouinashepressedme.
Iwasfalling,butIneverreachedthegrass.Cameablurrofflashinglights,athunderinmyears,adarkness,aglimmeringofdimlightslowlydawning,awrenching,rackingpainbeyondalldescribing,andthenIheardthevoiceofonewhosaid:
“Ican’tfeelanything.”
Iknewthevoice.ItwasWardenAtherton’s.AndIknewmyselfforDarrellStanding,justreturnedacrossthecenturiestothejackethellofSanQuentin.AndIknewthetouchoffinger-tipsonmyneckwasWardenAtherton’s.