a lady, to make
this brawl in a lady's presence! Drive on!" he shouted.

"No!" cried Lady Mary.

The Frenchman's assailants were masked, but they were not highwaymen.
"Barber! Barber!" they shouted hoarsely, and closed in on him in a
circle.

"See how he use his steel!" laughed M. Beaucaire, as his point passed
through a tawdry waistcoat. For a moment he cut through the ring and
cleared a space about him, and Lady Mary saw his face shining in the
moonlight. "Canaille!" he hissed, as his horse sank beneath him; and,
though guarding his head from the rain of blows from above, he managed
to drag headlong from his saddle the man who had hamstrung the poor
brute. The fellow came suddenly to the ground, and lay there.

"Is it not a compliment," said a heavy voice, "to bring six large men to
subdue monsieur?"

"Oh, you are there, my frien'! In the rear--a little in the rear, I
think. Ha, ha!"

The Frenchman's play with his weapon was a revelation of skill, the more
extraordinary as he held in his hand only a light dress sword. But the
ring closed about him, and his keen defense could not avail him for more
than a few moments. Lady Mary's outriders, the gallants of her escort,
rode up close to the coach and encircled it, not interfering.

"Sir Hugh Guilford!" cried Lady Mary wildly, "if you will not help him,
give me your sword!" She would have leaped to the ground, but Sir Hugh
held the door.

"Sit quiet, madam," he said to her; then, to the man on the box, "Drive
on."

"If he does, I'll kill him!" she said fiercely. "Ah, what cowards! Will
you see the Duke murdered?"

"The Duke!" laughed Guilford. "They will not kill him, unless--be easy,
dear madam, 'twill be explained. Gad's life!" he muttered to Molyneux,
"'Twere time the varlet had his lashing! D'ye hear her?"

"Barber or no barber," answered Molyneux, "I wish I had warned him. He
fights as few gentlemen could. Ah--ah! Look at that! 'Tis a shame!"

On foot, his hat gone, his white coat sadly rent and gashed, flecked,
too, with red, M. Beaucaire, wary, alert, brilliant, seemed to transform
himself into a dozen fencing-masters; and, though his skill appeared
to lie in delicacy and quickness, his play being continually with
the point, sheer strength failed to beat him down. The young man was
laughing like a child.

"Believe me," said Molyneux "he's no barber! No, and never was!"

For a moment there was even a chance that M. Beaucaire might have the
best of