The Rat Trap
"That will I, though ye don't deserve it!"
"Hidden in my personal apartments at the castle," panted the man.
O'Rourke incautiously drew off, lowering his point a trifle. "Is that the truth?" he demanded fiercely.
"Truth, indeed," returned the duke.
At the moment a slight exclamation from Charles made the Irishman turn his head. For a passing second he was off his guard. That second Monsieur le Prince seized upon.
"The truth," he gasped, "but you'll never live to tell it!"
And on the words he lunged.
Some instinct made O'Rourke jump. It saved his life. The blade passed through his sword arm cleanly, and was withdrawn. The pain of it brought a cry to his lips. "Ye contemptible coward!" he cried, turning upon the prince.
The treachery of it made his blood boil. A flush of rage colored his brain, so that he seemed to see the world darkly, through a mist of scarlet wherein only the face of his enemy was visible.
He turned upon the prince, shifting his rapier to his left hand. The very surprise of his movements proved the prince's undoing; O'Rourke's naked hand struck up his blade. He closed with Georges, his fingers clutching about the prince's throat—the fingers of the hand belonging to the wounded arm, at that. With incredible dexterity he shortened his grip of the rapier, grasping it half way down the blade, using it after the fashion of a poniard.
And what was mortal of Monsieur le Prince, Georges le Lützelburg collapsed upon the floor.
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