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 This one-eyed mask looked at him.

This mask had two hands; these two hands came out of the darkness and approached Radoub; one, with a single grasp, snatched the two pistols from his belt, the other removed his sword from between his teeth.

Radoub was disarmed. His knee was slipping on the inclined plane of the cornice, his two hands grasping the ends of the iron bars could hardly hold him, and he had beneath him forty feet of precipice.

This face and these hands belonged to Chante-en-hiver. Chante-en-hiver, suffocated by the smoke pouring up from below, had succeeded in entering the embrasure of the loophole, and here the outside air had revived him, the coolness of the night had stanched his blood, and he had regained a little strength; suddenly, he saw Radoub's form rise up outside in front of the opening, then as Radoub, clinging to the bars with both hands, had only the choice of falling or being disarmed, Chante-en-hiver, calm and frightful, took the pistols out of his belt and his sword from between his teeth.

An extraordinary duel began. A duel between the unarmed and the wounded.

Without doubt, the dying man had the advantage. One bullet would be enough to hurl Radoub into the yawning gulf, under his feet.

Fortunately for Radoub, Chante-en-hiver, having both pistols in one hand, could shoot neither of them and was forced to make use of the sword. He thrust the point of it into Radoub's shoulder. This thrust wounded Radoub and saved him.

Radoub, without arms, but having all his strength scorned his wound, which did not reach to the bone, sprang forward, let go the bars, and leaped into the embrasure.

Then he found himself face to face with Chante-en-hiver who had thrown the sword behind him, and now held the two pistols in his two hands.

Chante-en-hiver, on his knees, aimed at Radoub who was almost close up to the muzzle; but his weakened arm trembled and he did not immediately shoot.

Radoub took advantage of this respite to burst out laughing.

"Tell me, ugly mug," he cried, "do you think I am