lid, exhausted. Her sleep was almost the
unconsciousness of coma; she scarcely breathed.

The fire on the hearth went out; the smoking embers glimmered
under feathery ashes. Grahame entered, carrying a lantern.

"Come," he whispered. "Poor little thing!--can't I help you,
Marche? Wait; here's a rug. So--wrap it around her feet. Can you
carry her? Then follow; here, touch my coat--I'm going to put out
the light in my lantern. Now--gently. Here we are."

Jack climbed into the post-chaise; Grahame, holding Lorraine in
his arms, leaned in, and Jack took her again. She had not
awakened.

"Brocard and I are going to sit in front," whispered Grahame. "Is
all right within?"

"Yes," nodded Jack.

The chaise moved on for a moment, then suddenly stopped with a
jerk.

Jack heard Grahame whisper, "Sit still, you fool! I've got
passes; sit still!"

"Let go!" murmured Brocard.

"Sit still!" repeated Grahame, in an angry whisper; "it's all
right, I tell you. Be silent!"

There was a noiseless struggle, a curse half breathed, then a
figure slipped from the chaise into the road.

Grahame sank back. "Marche, that damned poacher will hang us all.
What am I to do?"

"What is it?" asked Jack, in a scarcely audible voice.

"Can't you hear? There's an Uhlan in the road in front. That fool
means to kill him."

Jack strained his eyes in the darkness; the road ahead was black
and silent.

"You can't see him," whispered Grahame. "Brocard caught the
distant rattle of his lance in the stirrup. He's gone to kill
him, the bloodthirsty imbecile!"

"To shoot him?" asked Jack, aghast.

"No; he's got his broad wood-knife--that's the way these brutes
kill. Hark! Good God!"

A scream rang through the forest; something was coming towards
them, too--a horse, galloping, galloping, pounding, thundering
past--a frantic horse that tossed its head and tore on through
the night, mane flying, bridle loose. And there, crouched on the
saddle, two men swayed, locked in a death-clench--an Uhlan with
ghostly face and bared teeth, and Brocard, the poacher, cramped
and clinging like a panther to his prey, his broad knife flashing
in the gloom.

In a second they were gone; far away in the forest the hoof
strokes echoed farther and farther, duller, duller, then ceased.

"Drive on," muttered Jack, with lips that could barely form the
words.

XXIX

THE MESSAGE OF THE FLAG

It was dawn when Lorraine awoke, stifling a cry of dismay. At