."

At that moment La Mothe felt the bridle of Grey Roland pushed into his
hand with a "Hold that a moment, monsieur," and Jean Saxe's stop-gap
crossed to the Dauphin's side.

"Your pardon, Monseigneur," he said, stooping, "there is a buckle
loose, if your Highness would lift your leg a moment while I fasten it."

"A buckle? Where?"

"Below the saddle-flap, Monseigneur: a shift of the leg--thank you,
Monseigneur, that is right," and he drew back toward the Chien Noir,
nor paused until he was lost in the crowd of idlers. For a gipsy he
was singularly unobtrusive.

CHAPTER XIV

FOR LIFE AND A THRONE

Slipping his foot back into the stirrup the Dauphin mechanically closed
his knees, as a rider does to renew his grip after it has been relaxed.
But with the tightening of the grip the bay started as if goaded by a
vicious double rasp of the spurs, swerved violently, shaking his head
till the chains rattled, then plunging to right and left he sprang
forward at a gallop.

"Hugues, Hugues, catch the reins," cried mademoiselle, but the swerve
had sent Hugues staggering, and before he had steadied himself or
regained his wits Bertrand was tearing madly under the city gates, his
reins hanging loose, his neck stretched like a racer's.

"The Dauphin! the Dauphin! Oh! for God's sake--Hugues--Monsieur La
Mothe--is there no one to help? They will be in the Loire--drowned
while you stand there staring. Oh! that I could ride like a man: why
don't you move, some of you, stocks that you are?"

The gasped words were but a breath, so quickly the broken sentences
followed one another, but before the frightened girl could lash them
with the whip of her distress a second time La Mothe had his fingers
knit in Grey Roland's mane and was climbing into the saddle, and the
last he heard, as, swaying in his seat, he groped blindly for a missing
stirrup, was the girl's deep breath, half sob, half cry.

Bertrand had a long start, but on Grey Roland's back was a rider who in
his horsemanship had learned not only how to save his beast, so that no
ounce of strength might be unduly hurried to waste, but who also knew
how to compel into immediate energy all that reserve force which
endures the trials of a long day's march.

Bareheaded--his hat was in his hand as he jested with Ursula de Vesc,
and in the stress of the surprise he had flung it aside--La Mothe
crouched low in the saddle, the reins gathered into his left hand so
that h