the ears, the mane, coming into sight as the rider still gained
upon them, and then above them the fierce face of Despard and the gleam
of a brass pistol barrel.

"At the horse, Despard, at the horse!" cried an authoritative voice from
behind.

The pistol flashed, and the coach lurched over as one of the horses gave
a convulsive spring. But the driver still shrieked and lashed with his
whip, while the carriage bounded onwards.

But now the road turned a sudden curve, and there, right in front of
them, not a hundred paces away, was the Seine, running cold and still in
the moonshine. The bank on either side of the highway ran straight down
without any break to the water's edge. There was no sign of a bridge,
and a black shadow in the centre of the stream showed where the
ferry-boat was returning after conveying some belated travellers across.
The driver never hesitated, but gathering up the reins, he urged the
frightened creatures into the river. They hesitated, however, when they
first felt the cold water about their hocks, and even as they did so one
of them, with a low moan, fell over upon her side. Despard's bullet had
found its mark. Like a flash the coachman hurled himself from the box
and plunged into the stream; but the pursuing horsemen were all round
him before this, and half-a-dozen hands had seized him ere he could
reach deep water, and had dragged him to the bank. His broad hat had
been struck off in the struggle, and De Catinat saw his face in the
moonshine. Great heavens! It was Amos Green.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DUNGEON OF PORTILLAC.

The desperadoes were as much astonished as was De Catinat when they
found that they had recaptured in this extraordinary manner the
messenger whom they had given up for lost. A volley of oaths and
exclamations broke from them, as, on tearing off the huge red coat of
the coachman, they disclosed the sombre dress of the young American.

"A thousand thunders!" cried one. "And this is the man whom that
devil's brat Latour would make out to be dead!"

"And how came he here?"

"And where is Etienne Arnaud?"

"He has stabbed Etienne. See the great cut in the coat!"

"Ay; and see the colour of his hand! He has stabbed him, and taken his
coat and hat."

"What! while we were all within stone's cast!"

"Ay; there is no other way out of it."

"By my soul!" cried old Despard, "I had never much love for old Etienne,
but I have emptied a cup of wine with h