ard on his face. The weapon seemed scarcely to have
touched the man, so quickly was it withdrawn; and with the same motion
that drew it forth La Pommeraye sent it crashing through the helmet of
the other ruffian. De Narvaez and his two companions saw that they were
foiled, and, striking fiercely at Claude, who fell beneath their united
blows, they turned to flee. But they had lost a second too much. That
last blow was their ruin. Charles was upon them like a whirlwind. His
sword flashed like a destroying sunbeam, and two others fell lifeless on
the road, while their steeds galloped wildly away. De Narvaez turned to
face his foe; and his dark face blanched beneath the fierce eye of the
French giant. It was but a moment. Charles crossed swords with him;
once, twice--and as if he had been saying "One, two three, die!" he
plunged his blade through and through the body of the spy.

"Hot work, but glorious!" he exclaimed, as the Spaniard fell heavily in
the dust. "Five in as many minutes. But I must look to my friends."

Bastienne was sitting with her master's head in her lap. Marie had taken
off Claude's helmet and revealed a ghastly wound on the temple.
Marguerite stood beside her horse, shading her eyes with her hand, her
face tense and strained as she watched the issue of the combat. It was
not till the victor, flushed but triumphant, his gay riding-suit covered
with blood and dust, advanced, and doffing his hat almost to the ground
bowed low before her, that she recognised La Pommeraye.

"Mademoiselle is uninjured, I trust?" said Charles.

The blood had mounted to her cheek as she saw in their preserver her
rude assailant of nearly a year before, but she kept the quiet dignity
of her manner. Drawing off one glove she held out her hand, saying as
she did so:

"Monsieur, under God we owe you all our lives. But for your timely
appearance, what would have become of three defenceless women when my
uncle fell?"

The delicate fingers lay for a moment in La Pommeraye's mighty grasp, as
he raised them reverently to his lips, hardly believing in his own good
fortune. They were instantly withdrawn, however, and Marguerite hastened
to her uncle's side.

De Roberval was only stunned, and might safely be left to Bastienne's
skill. It was otherwise with Claude. The wound was a severe one, as
Charles instantly recognised.

"Pardon me," he said to Marie, who, less self-controlled than
Marguerite, had given way, once the crisis h