Benedetto, who had been told the way to Beaussuet by Anselmo, whipped his horse severely, making it fly over the stones and pavement. The vicarage was situated at the entrance to the village; the horse was covered with blood and foam, but Benedetto knew no mercy. Like a flash of lightning horse and rider flew along, and when the horse finally broke down, the first houses in the village had been reached.

Benedetto jumped off, but did not throw a look at the dying horse; he only thought of himself and his safety. He thought Anselmo had fallen into the hands of the people at Oliolles. That his companion would not betray him he knew, but the coachman had seen him and he would be pursued. There was no way out of it. He must get possession of the million, and then try to reach the coast.

Benedetto recognized the vicarage at the first glance, as his mother had described it accurately to him. An olive-tree stood inside the wall near the entrance. Benedetto took between his teeth the knife Anselmo had given him, and swung himself over the wall and thence on to the window-sill. The wretch hesitated a moment before he broke the pane. Suppose his mother uttered a cry.

"Ah, bah," he thought, "it will be her own fault."

With a quick movement he broke the glass.

Taking out a small thieves'-lantern and some matches, which Anselmo had also given him, he struck a light and looked around. The bed was empty.

"The mistral delayed her," muttered Benedetto; "I must be quick."

Hastily plunging his knife into the closet, he opened the door, and was soon in possession of the portfolio. He put it on the table and tried to open the lock with his knife. But in vain; it would not open.

At this moment his sharp ear detected the sound of horses' hoofs.

"The pursuers," he muttered, and for a moment he was dazed.

He collected himself rapidly. He did not wish to be caught, yet did not desire to lose the million. Taking the portfolio in his hand, he opened the window and was about to spring out when he paused. Unless he had the use of both of his hands, he could not hope to reach the wall, and he did not think of leaving his plunder behind him. Now he heard voices. His pursuers must have halted under the olive-tree; a horse whinnied, there was no chance of escape! He ran to the door. It was shut tight, and now it recurred to him that his mother had told him she carried the key in her pocket.

What was he to do? Alive he would not be captured, and the bandit who hesitated to draw his knife against his pursuers was a coward. He himself dreaded death, and he therefore carefully tried to remove the lock with his knife. Perhaps he could escape anyhow!

He had just removed two screws, when he heard heavy steps coming up the stairs. His pursuers were at his heels.

With the portfolio under his arm and his knife held aloof in his hand, he waited. A key was inserted in the lock now, the door opened, and a figure entered the room.

But it did not proceed far. Benedetto's knife sank down and a hot stream of blood squirted into the face of the murderer, who had struck his victim in the breast. At the same moment Benedetto felt himself seized by a hand of iron and thrown down, while a well-known voice cried in his ear:

"Miserable scoundrel, it was your mother—your mother, and you knew it!"

The man who said this in a voice of thunder was none other than Anselmo, the galley slave, the ex-priest who had disgraced his cloth, but who was innocent in comparison to his comrade Benedetto.

He shook the Corsican like a madman, and continually repeated the words:

"Scoundrel! Murderer! Monster! It is your mother!"

Madame Danglars lay groaning on the floor, the knife was buried up to the hilt in her breast, and yet she did not utter a cry as she recognized her murderer. She restrained herself with superhuman power, fearing to give the alarm to Benedetto's pursuers.

"Benedetto," she faintly whispered, "you have killed me—but you did not know it was I, did you? Oh, sir," she added, turning to Anselmo, "leave him alone, he must escape—quick!"

Anselmo obeyed. During their desperate ride, he had been told by the poor mother what Benedetto was to her. He knew Benedetto would go to the extreme, and his heart stopped beating as he thought of the unnatural son! He had urged the horse on at a wild gallop, so as to bring Benedetto's mother to the vicarage in safety. His own safety was of secondary importance to him, when it was a question of protecting a mother from the knife of her son. He intended to alarm the house; that Benedetto would arrive there before them he had not imagined.

"Sir," muttered the baroness, faintly, "swear to me that you will let Benedetto escape. Do not pursue him, and I die peacefully."

"I swear it," said Anselmo, in a hollow voice.

"Thanks, a thousand thanks! Benedetto, embrace me and fly."

The bandit stood as if transfixed, and gazed at the dying woman, and only when Anselmo touched him by the arm and drew him to the groaning woman, exclaiming: "Do as she says, or I will kill you," did he condescend to press his forehead to her cold lips.

"Benedetto," she whispered faintly.

Her breath ceased—she was dead.

"I have the million," said Benedetto, after a pause, "come!"

Instead of answering, Anselmo tore the knife from out of the breast of the dead woman and, holding it toward the son, hissed:

"Go, monster, or I shall break my oath and kill you."

Benedetto hesitated no longer, took the portfolio which lay on the floor, and bounded down the stairs.