Mark--and then nearly dropped the horse
pistol he grasped as the sound of his voice struck his ears. For he
spoke in the French of the late eighteenth century, and the voice was
not his own, but that of Jacques Rombeau!

From behind him came another voice--faintly tremulous, the voice of a
woman:

"Jacques, _mon cher_! We are ready! Quick!"

"Right!"

Then, prodding the baron's stomach with the gun barrel:

"Why I don't kill you now I'll never know. _Le Bon Dieu_ knows I've got
cause enough. And may He have mercy on your soul if you try to follow
us!"

Turning on his heel, Mark sprang aboard the coach. From the driver's
seat came a shout and the crack of the whip. With a jerk that nearly
threw Mark to the floor, they were off!

"Oh, Jacques! I was so afraid! The baron--"

He turned in his seat. Looked into the lovely, appealing face of Elaine
Duchard. Her arms reached out to him. Instinctively he accepted the
embrace. He held her close, and his lips sought hers.

It was strange; incredible. Even as he kissed the girl, Mark realized
it. He was two people simultaneously--Mark Carter and Jacques Rombeau.
The brain of the former had traveled back through time into the body of
the latter. In so doing, it had somehow acquired all the knowledge, the
personality, the character traits of Rombeau. Yet because the mind of
Mark Carter had been protected by Professor Duchard's insulating helmet,
he still was able to think independently--almost as if his own twentieth
century being was held apart in a special brain lobe within Jacques
Rombeau's skull!

"I knew you would come, Jacques! I knew it!"

A wave of sentiment choked off Mark's reply. Again he kissed the soft
hollow of that first Elaine Duchard's throat, trying the while to fight
off the awful sense of futility that swept over him as he remembered
history's verdict as to her fate.

Then, suddenly, the coach was halting.

"Whoa, there!" came the voice of the burly man on the box. And then:
"Well, Jacques, what now? We're away from the castle, but where do we
go?"

Mark swung to the ground. Glanced back to where the Chateau Morriere
still loomed black and menacing on a distant ridge.

"Every road and bridge is blocked," the other went on. "The peasantry's
none too peaceful in these parts, and the baron's taking no chances."

Mark nodded slowly.

"What do you think, Baroc?" he asked. Somehow, he knew that was the
man's name.

The burly one scowled.

"P