The words were extinguished, the steps moved away.
The general clung to the curtain; he uttered the most horrible sob of a father abandoned at once by his wife and his son...
Then sped he to his most secret armoire, and took therefrom the épée Gourthand that Monte Fato had given him in an offhand sort of way, and bespake it thus: "Hail, Gourthand, monsieur, iron of death, you alone remain, and most fittingly art in a style that hath completely gone out of fashion, for no one forges swords wherein the dark heart of the smith yet dwells anymore. What lord or loyalty or political ideology or doctrine of political economy do you know, save the hand that wields you? From no blood will you shrink. Will you take Pippand Touc? Will you slay me swiftly?"
And from the blade rang a cold voice with an exotic accent that mispronounced the j sound in answer: "Yes, I will drink your blood, that I may forget the blood of Bélègue my master, and of the Scarlet Pimpernel slain unjustly, and the poor champagne wherein your son drenched me for a jeu d'esprit. I will slay thee swiftly."
Then Pippand set the hilts upon the ground, and cast himself upon the point of Gourthand, and the black blade took his life.
