smiling and gracious, had just killed two men.

At break of day he started again, but a prey to anxiety, for although
two attempts had failed, the third might be successful. He determined
when he reached Orleans to send to the king to ask for an escort.

But as the road to Orleans was passed without accident, Chicot began to
think again that it was needless, and that the king would lose his good
opinion of him, and also that an escort would be a great trouble. He
went on, therefore, but his fears began to return as evening advanced.
All at once he heard behind him the galloping of horses, and turning
round he counted seven cavaliers, of whom four had muskets on their
shoulders. They gained rapidly on Chicot, who, seeing flight was
hopeless, contented himself with making his horse move in zig-zags, so
as to escape the balls which he expected every moment. He was right, for
when they came about fifty feet from him, they fired, but thanks to his
maneuver, all the balls missed him. He immediately abandoned the reins
and let himself slip to the ground, taking the precaution to have his
sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.

He came to the ground in such a position that his head was protected by
the breast of his horse.

A cry of joy came from the troop, who, seeing him fall, believed him
dead.

"I told you so," said a man, riding up, with a mask on his face; "you
failed because you did not follow my orders. This time, here he is;
search him, and if he moves, finish him."

Chicot was not a pious man, but at such a moment he remembered his God
and murmured a fervent prayer.

Two men approached him sword in hand, and as he did not stir, came
fearlessly forward; but instantly Chicot's dagger was in the throat of
one, and his sword half buried in the side of the other.

"Ah! treason!" cried the chief, "he is not dead; charge your muskets."

"No, I am not dead," cried Chicot, attacking the speaker.

But two soldiers came to the rescue; Chicot turned and wounded one in
the thigh.

"The muskets!" cried the chief.

"Before they are ready, you will be pierced through the heart," cried
Chicot.

"Be firm, and I will aid you," cried a voice, which seemed to Chicot to
come from heaven.

It was that of a fine young man, on a black horse. He had a pistol in
each hand, and cried again to Chicot, "Stoop! morbleu, stoop!"

Chicot obeyed.

One pistol was fired, and a man rolled at Chicot's feet; then the
second, and