e well calculated to
terrify and crush her.

Despairingly, she observed how the sun dipped, and ever dipped toward
the west, when suddenly a sound afar rekindled her fainting spirits.
Listening more attentively, she was assured imagination had not
deceived her; it was the faint patter of a horse's hoofs. Nearer it
drew; quicker beat her pulses. Moreover, it was the rat-a-tat of
galloping. Some one was pursuing the coach on horseback. Impatient to
glance behind, she only refrained for prudential reasons.

Immersed in his own grape-vine castle her jailer was unmindful of the
approaching rider, and she turned her face from him that he might not
read her exultation. Closer resounded the beating hoofs, but her
impatience outstripped the pursuer, and she was almost impelled to
rush to the window.

Who was the horseman? Was it Barnes? Saint-Prosper? The latter's name
had quickly suggested itself to her.

Although the rider, whoever he might be, continued to gain ground, to
her companion, the approaching clatter was inseparable from the noise
of the vehicle, and it was not until the horseman was nearly abreast,
and the cadence of the galloping resolved itself into clangor, that
the dreamer awoke with an imprecation. As he sprang to his feet, thus
rudely disturbed, a figure on horseback dashed by and a stern voice
called to the driver:

"Stop the coach!"

Probably the command was given over the persuasive point of a weapon,
for the animals were drawn up with a quick jerk and came to a
standstill in the middle of the road. Menacing and abusive, as the
vehicle stopped, the warder's hand sought one of his pockets, when the
young girl impetuously caught his arm, clinging to it tenaciously.

"Quick!--Mr. Saint-Prosper!" she cried, recognizing, as she thought,
the voice of the soldier.

"You wild-cat!" her jailer exclaimed, struggling to throw her off.

Not succeeding, he raised his free arm in a flurry of invective.

"Curse you, will you let go!"

"Quick! Quick!" she called out, holding him more tightly.

A flood of Billingsgate flowed from his lips. "Let go, or--"

But before he could in his blind passion strike her or otherwise vent
his rage, a revolver was clapped to his face through the window, and,
with a look of surprise and terror, his valor oozing from him, he
crouched back on the cushions. At the same time the carriage door was
thrown open, and Edward Mauville, the patroon, stood in the entrance!

Only an i