e mounting-board. His bearded face leered in. A knife
flashed.

_Boom!_

The man fell back, dead before he hit the ground, his throat torn out by
the slug from Mark's horse pistol. The coach was blue with the acrid
stench of gunpowder smoke.

"Oh, Jacques! Don't let them get me! I love you so, Jacques--no matter
what happens--"

Mark's arm was tight around Elaine. His face was taut and grim as they
bounced onward. He fingered the haft of a broad-bladed knife in his
belt.

"They won't get you! I promise it--"

Then, suddenly, their enemies were rushing to the attack again. From all
sides they came. The point of a sword cut off Baroc's hoarse cry in
mid-breath. He pitched from the box.

On through the night plunged the driverless coach, the horses mad with
fright. A bridge loomed ahead. They raced for it like creatures from
hell, flanks lathered, nostrils flaring.

Another rider tried to spring to the coach. Mark's knife flashed out.
Drove home.

Then they were onto the bridge.

With a roar the coach jumped sidewise on the boards. Crashed into the
flimsy railing. Tottered for a moment above the stream. Plunged backward
into the water, dragging the horses with it.

Mark felt himself hurled back into one corner. His head smashed hard
against something. Consciousness waned.

But the rush of water revived him. He lurched half-erect as the river
spilled through the windows in a tidal wave.

Elaine lay unconscious on the floor. He caught up her limp body. Kicked
open one door. Lunged out into the turbulent stream. Drifted with the
current, barely keeping their heads above water.

From the banks came the shouts of searching men.

Onward Mark and Elaine drifted. The girl's eyes still were closed. Her
body slack.

All his life those endless hours were a nightmare to the man. He
remembered, vaguely, that they lay hidden under the roots of a willow
while guardsmen on the bank above them cursed the luck that had let the
pair escape. Mark's teeth were chattering and his muscles weak. Elaine's
face, beside him, was growing blue with cold. Yet still she did not
recover consciousness.

Then, at last, the baron's men were clumping off, and Mark was dragging
his sweetheart out onto the bank.

A voice said:

"Praise God they did not find you!"

* * * * *

Mark staggered to face the man who spoke. His hand flashed to the knife
in his belt.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The stran