them all, at a hus in the gable of a thatched cottage, stood the
girl whom the Chevalier had recognised, anxiously watching the affray.
She was leaning across the lower closed half of the door, her hands in
apprehensive excitement clasping her cheeks. The eyes were bewildered,
and, though alive with pain, watched the scene below with unwavering
intensity.

Like all mobs this one had no reason, no sense. They were baulked in
their malign intentions, and this man, Maitre Ranulph Delagarde, was the
cause of it--that was all they knew. A stone was thrown at Delagarde as
he stood in the doorway, but it missed him.

"Oh-oh-oh!" the girl exclaimed, shrinking. "O shame! O you cowards!" she
added, her hands now indignantly beating on the hus. Three or four men
rushed forward on Ranulph. He hurled them back. Others came on with
weapons. The girl fled for an instant, then reappeared with a musket, as
the people were crowding in on Delagarde with threats and execrations.

"Stop! stop!" cried the girl from above, as Ranulph seized a
black-smith's hammer to meet the onset. "Stop, or I'll fire!" she called
again, and she aimed her musket at the foremost assailants.

Every face turned in her direction, for her voice had rung out clear
as music. For an instant there was silence--the levelled musket had
a deadly look, and the girl seemed determined. Her fingers, her
whole body, trembled; but there was no mistaking the strong will, the
indignant purpose.

All at once in the pause another sound was heard. It was a quick tramp,
tramp, tramp! and suddenly under the prison archway came running an
officer of the King's navy with a company of sailors. The officer, with
drawn sword, his men following with cutlasses, drove a way through the
mob, who scattered before them like sheep.

Delagarde threw aside his hammer, and saluted the officer. The little
Chevalier made a formal bow, and hastened to say that he was not at
all hurt. With a droll composure he offered snuff to the officer, who
declined politely. Turning to the window where the girl stood, the
new-comer saluted with confident gallantry.

"Why, it's little Guida Landresse!" he said under his breath--"I'd know
her anywhere. Death and Beauty, what a face!" Then he turned to Ranulph
in recognition.

"Ranulph Delagarde, eh?" said he good-humouredly. "You've forgotten me,
I see. I'm Philip d'Avranche, of the Narcissus."

Ranulph had forgotten. The slight lad Philip had grown bronze