might as well have tried to stay
a hurricane. Lagardere beat them back, cut them down, and swept through
their reeling line to the spot where Nevers was lying.

"I am here!" he shouted, and faced the masked shadow. "Murderer, you hide
your face, but you shall bear my mark, that I may know you when we meet
again."

The slayer of Nevers had stood on guard by the side of his victim when
Lagardere came towards him. By his side the masked companion extended a
cautious blade. In one wild second Lagardere beat down the slayer's sword
and wounded the unknown man deeply on the wrist. The assassin's sword
fell from his hand, and the assassin, with a cry of rage, retreated into
the darkness. Lagardere had only time to brand the traitor; he had not
the time to kill him. Looking swiftly about him, he saw that his
vengeance must be patient if he were to save his skin from that shambles.
The sword of the satellite defended the master; other swords began to
gleam anew. From all the quarters of that field of fight the bravos were
gathering again, all there were left of them, and Lagardere was now
alone. With the activity of the skilled acrobat he leaped backward to the
cart, and, while he still faced his enemies and while his terrible sword
glittered in ceaseless movement, he snatched the child from the
sheltering hay with his left hand, and, turning, began to run at his full
speed towards the bridge. There were bravos in his path that thought to
stay him, but they gave way before the headlong fury of his rush as if
they believed him to be irresistible, and he reached the steps in
safety.

Once there he turned again and raised his sword in triumph, while he
cried, fiercely: "Nevers is dead! Long live Nevers!"

By now the galloping of horses sounded loud as immediate thunder, and
even as Lagardere spoke a number of shadowy horsemen had occupied the
bridge behind him, and those in the moat could see above them the glint
of levelled muskets. The servant shadow held the postern open with a
trembling hand to harbor the survivors of the strife. But the man that
had killed Nevers, the man that Lagardere had branded, had still a hate
to satisfy.

"A thousand crowns," he cried, "to the man who gets the child!"

Not a man of all the baffled assassins answered to that challenge.
Standing upon the steps of the bridge, Lagardere caught it up.

"Seek her behind my sword, assassin! You wear my mark, and I will find
you out! You shall all suff