ger was old. The hands he raised in a gesture of peace were
toil-worn.

"Only a poor peasant, friend," he answered. "I welcome you because the
baron's men would not be hunting you were you not his enemies--may his
soul rot in hell!"

"You will help us?"

The old man nodded.

"As much as I can. There is an abandoned chateau near here. You can hide
there. I shall bring you food."

All but one wing of the ancient edifice to which the peasant took them
was in ruins, gutted by fire. It stood high on a hill like a blackened
skeleton.

"Once those who lived here were as cruel and proud as Baron Morriere,"
commented their guide. "Fire made them our equals."

And the part of Mark that was Jacques Rombeau answered:

"Fire will make many equals in the years to come, old man. And swords
will help, for a poor man's arm can strike as lusty a blow as any
lord's."

They laid Elaine on a bed of straw high in the unburned wing. She was
conscious now, but screaming in delirium.

"We've got to get a doctor!" Mark grated tensely. "If she dies--"

The thought brought him up short. History said Elaine Duchard could not
die! No! She must be tormented and murdered! And already the time was
short, for Professor Duchard had asserted that she was killed two days
after her first escape. Twelve hours had passed since he and the girl
had clambered into the coach. That left thirty-six--

The old peasant was shaking his head.

"There is no doctor here who can be trusted," he declared. "One and all,
they would run to Baron Morriere. The nearest who would help you and
keep his mouth shut is in Paris--"

For ten long seconds Mark struggled with himself.

Elaine was sick. Perhaps dying. Well, why not let her die? Wouldn't it
be better than to see her perhaps back in the hands of Baron Morriere?
Was it not to kill her that he, Mark Carter, had come across a hundred
fifty years of time? Had he not sworn he would contradict history's
verdict--

"Jacques! Don't let them get me! Save me! Jacques--"

She was screaming in delirium again, her lovely face pale, her golden
hair water-soaked to limp stringiness. Mark knelt beside her. Chafed her
wrists. Sponged the fevered brow.

"Jacques! Jacques!"

"History be damned!"

He shouted it aloud. Sprang erect, eyes flashing cold fire.

"I won't let her die now, and I won't let the baron get her! History or
no history, she's my Elaine, and I'll save her!"

* * * *