aloof, silent, ashamed, disheartened, and took no part in the contest.
Landrillon hurled the first stone, and the others, following his example, cast at the Dykgrave all that they found at hand. The marksmen, who had come to contend for the archery prize, aimed, without shame, at the too prodigal king of their brotherhood. One arrow hit him under the armpit, another pierced Guidon's throat, making his blood spurt out on to Henry's face. Kehlmark, unheeding his own wound, never for a moment ceased to drink in and, as it were, caress with his eyes the outraged body of his friend; but, pierced a second time near the heart, he fell to the ground with his precious burden.
As they bounded forward to finish him off, a woman in white placed herself before them and, with crossed arms, presented her breast to their blows. Her majesty and her grief were such, and especially the calm heroism and divine renunciation revealed in her visage, that all drew back; whilst Claudie pushing far away from her Landrillon, who was trying to drag her off and claiming the promised reward—threw herself, henceforth irredeemably and for ever mad, into the arms
