out
on the wind. Under the clusters of ribbon on her shoulders there
was a gleam of ivory; her long gloves slipped to the wrists; her
hair whipped the rounded arms, bare and white below the riotous
ribbons, snapping and fluttering on her shoulders; her cloak
unclasped at the throat and whirled to the ground, trampled into
the forest mould.

They struck a man in the darkness; they heard him shriek; the
horses staggered an instant, that was all, except a gasp from the
girl, bending with whitened cheeks close to her horse's mane.

"Look out! A lantern!--close ahead!" panted Marche.

The sharp crack of a revolver cut him short, his horse leaped
forward, the blood spurting from its neck.

"Are you hit?" he cried.

"No! no! Ride!"

Again and again, but fainter and fainter, came the crack! crack!
of the revolver, like a long whip snapped in the wind.

"Are you hit?" he asked again.

"Yes, it is nothing! Ride!"

In the darkness and confusion of the plunging horses he managed
to lean over to her where she bent in her saddle; and, on one
white, round shoulder, he saw the crimson welt of a bullet, from
which the blood was welling up out of the satin skin.

And now, in the gloom, the park wall loomed up along the river,
and he shouted for the lodge-keeper, rising in his stirrups; but
the iron gate swung wide, and the broad, empty avenue stretched
up to the Chateau.

They galloped up to the door; he slipped from his horse, swung
Lorraine to the ground, and sprang up the low steps. The door was
open, the long hall brilliantly lighted.

"It is I--Lorraine!" cried the girl. A tall, bearded man burst in
from a room on the left, clutching a fowling-piece.

"Lorraine! They've got the box! The balloon secret was in it!" he
groaned; "they are in the house yet--" He stared wildly at Marche,
then at his daughter. His face was discoloured with bruises, his
thick, blond hair fell in disorder across steel-blue eyes that
gleamed with fury.

Almost at the same moment there came a crash of glass, a heavy
fall from the porch, and then a shot.

In an instant Marche was at the door; he saw a game-keeper raise
his gun and aim at him, and he shrank back as the report roared
in his ears.

"You fool!" he shouted; "don't shoot at me! drop your gun and
follow!" He jumped to the ground and started across the garden
where a dark figure was clutching the wall and trying to climb to
the top. He was too late--the man was over; but he fol