, disarmed by the
Frenchman's lackeys.

Guilford's discomfiture had freed the doors of the coach; so it was that
when M. Beaucaire, struggling to rise, assisted by his servants, threw
out one hand to balance himself, he found it seized between two small,
cold palms, and he looked into two warm, dilating eyes, that were doubly
beautiful because of the fright and rage that found room in them, too.

M. le Duc Chateaurien sprang to his feet without the aid of his lackeys,
and bowed low before Lady Mary.

"I make ten thousan' apology to be' the cause of a such melee in your
presence," he said; and then, turning to Francois, he spoke in French:
"Ah, thou scoundrel! A little, and it had been too late."

Francois knelt in the dust before him. "Pardon!" he said. "Monseigneur
commanded us to follow far in the rear, to remain unobserved. The wind
malignantly blew against monseigneur's voice."

"See what it might have cost, my children," said his master, pointing
to the ropes with which they would have bound him and to the whip lying
beside them. A shudder passed over the lackey's frame; the utter horror
in his face echoed in the eyes of his fellows.

"Oh, monseigneur!" Francois sprang back, and tossed his arms to heaven.

"But it did not happen," said M. Beaucaire.

"It could not!" exclaimed Francois.

"No. And you did very well, my children--" the young man smiled
benevolently--"very well. And now," he continued, turning to Lady Mary
and speaking in English, "let me be asking of our gallants yonder what
make' them to be in cabal with highwaymen. One should come to a polite
understanding with them, you think? Not so?"

He bowed, offering his hand to conduct her to the coach, where Molyneux
and his companions, having drawn Sir Hugh from under his horse, were
engaged in reviving and reassuring Lady Rellerton, who had fainted. But
Lady Mary stayed Beaucaire with a gesture, and the two stood where they
were.

"Monseigneur!" she said, with a note of raillery in her voice, but
raillery so tender that he started with happiness. His movement brought
him a hot spasm of pain, and he clapped his hand to a red stain on his
waistcoat.

"You are hurt!"

"It is nothing," smiled M. Beaucaire. Then, that she might not see
the stain spreading, he held his handkerchief over the spot. "I am a
little--but jus' a trifling--bruise'; 'tis all."

"You shall ride in the coach," she whispered. "Will you be pleased, M.
de Chateaurien?"

"