it. Two of his adversaries were prostrate, more than one were
groaning, and the indomitable Frenchman had actually almost beat off the
ruffians, when, by a trick, he was overcome. One of them, dismounting,
ran in suddenly from behind, and seized his blade in a thick leather
gauntlet. Before Beaucaire could disengage the weapon, two others threw
themselves from their horses and hurled him to the earth. "A moi! A moi,
Francois!" he cried as he went down, his sword in fragments, but his
voice unbroken and clear.

"Shame!" muttered one or two of the gentlemen about the coach.

"'Twas dastardly to take him so," said Molyneux. "Whatever his
deservings, I'm nigh of a mind to offer him a rescue in the Duke's
face."

"Truss him up, lads," said the heavy voice. "Clear the way in front of
the coach. There sit those whom we avenge upon a presumptuous lackey.
Now, Whiffen, you have a fair audience, lay on and baste him."

Two men began to drag M. Beaucaire toward a great oak by the roadside.
Another took from his saddle a heavy whip with three thongs.

"A moi, Francois!"

There was borne on the breeze an answer--"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"
The cry grew louder suddenly. The clatter of hoofs urged to an anguish
of speed sounded on the night. M. Beaucaire's servants had lagged sorely
behind, but they made up for it now. Almost before the noise of their
own steeds they came riding down the moonlit aisle between the mists.
Chosen men, these servants of Beaucaire, and like a thunderbolt they
fell upon the astounded cavaliers.

"Chateaurien! Chateaurien!" they shouted, and smote so swiftly that,
through lack of time, they showed no proper judgment, discriminating
nothing between non-combatants and their master's foes. They charged
first into the group about M. Beaucaire, and broke and routed it
utterly. Two of them leaped to the young man's side, while the other
four, swerving, scarce losing the momentum of their onset, bore on upon
the gentlemen near the coach, who went down beneath the fierceness of
the onslaught, cursing manfully.

"Our just deserts," said Mr. Molyneux, his mouth full of dust and
philosophy.

Sir Hugh Guilford's horse fell with him, being literally ridden over,
and the baronet's leg was pinned under the saddle. In less than ten
minutes from the first attack on M. Beaucaire, the attacking party
had fled in disorder, and the patrician non-combatants, choking with
expletives, consumed with wrath, were prisoners