These Old Shades

and the stamping of frightened horses, and the coach toppled slowly into the ditch, so that the door by Leonie was only a yard from the hedge. She was flung violently against the side of the coach, with Saint-Vire atop of her, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that she refrained from throwing out a hand to save herself.

Saint-Vire struggled up, and wrenched at the off-side door, calling to know what was the matter. Victor’s voice answered.

“The near back wheel, m’sieur! We have one of the horses down, and a trace broken!”

Saint-Vire swore roundly, and hesitated, glancing at his captive. Once more he bent over her, listening to her breathing and then jumped down into the road, shutting the door behind him. Leonie heard him join in the melee without, and scrambled up. Cautiously she opened the door that leaned drunkenly to the hedge, and slipped out, crouching low. The men were at the horses’ heads, and Saint-Vire was hidden from her sight by one of the plunging leaders. Bent almost double she fled down the road, keeping to the ditch, and, coming presently upon a gap in the high hedge, pushed her way through it into the field beyond. She was hidden now from the road, but she knew that at any moment Saint-Vire might discover her escape, and she ran on, dizzy and trembling, back along the way they had come, looking wildly round for some hiding-place. The field stretched away on either side; the bend in the road was some hundred yards further on, and there was no sign of human habitation, or friendly woodland.

Then in the distance she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the hard road, galloping from the direction of Le Havre. She peeped through the hedge, wondering whether she dared call upon this furious rider to stop and assist her. The horse came round the bend. She saw a familiar blue coat, muddied over, a torn ruffle, and a dark handsome young face, flushed and excited.

She tore her way through the hedge, flew out into the road, and waved her hands.

“Rupert, Rupert, j’y suis!” she shrieked.

Rupert pulled up, wrenching his horse back upon its haunches, and let out a whoop of triumph.

“Quick! Oh, quick!” Leonie panted, and ran to his stirrup.

He hoisted her up before him.

“Where is he? Where’s that black scoundrel?” he demanded. “How did you——”

“Turn, turn!” she commanded. “He is there, with that coach, and there are three others! Oh, quickly, Rupert!” She pulled the horse round, but Rupert held it in still.

“No, damme, I’ll have his blood, Leonie. I’ve sworn——”

“Rupert, there are three with him, and you have no sword! Now he has seen! Nom de Dieu, en avant!”

He looked over his shoulder, undecided. Leonie saw Saint-Vire snatch a pistol from his pocket, and drove her heels into the horse’s flanks with all her might. The animal leaped forward; something sang past Leonie’s cheek, scorching it; there was a terrific oath from Rupert, and the horse bolted with them down the road. A second explosion came, and Leonie felt Rupert lurch in the saddle, and heard the quick intake of his breath.

“Touche, b’gad!” he gasped. “On with you, you madcap!”

“Laisse moi, laisse moi!” she cried, and snatched the bridle from him, urging the frightened horse round the bend. “Hold to me, Rupert, it is well now.”

Rupert could still laugh.

“Well, it is? Gad—what a—chase! Steady, steady! There’s—lane—further down—turn into it—never reach—Le Havre.”

She twisted the bridle round her little hands, and pulled gallantly.

“He will mount one of those horses,” she said, thinking quickly. “And he will ride to Le Havre. Yes, yes, we will turn down the lane; Rupert, mon pauvre, are you badly hurt?”

“Right shoulder—’tis naught. There—should be—village. There’s the lane! Steady him, steady him! Good girl! Hey, what an adventure!”

They swept into the lane, saw cottages ahead, and a farm. Of impulse Leonie pulled up her mount, turned aside to the hedge, and made the horse push through into the fields. Then on she drove him, cross-country, at a canter.

Rupert was swaying in the saddle.

“What—will you be at?” he said hoarsely.

“Laisse moi!” she repeated. “That is too near the road. He would be sure to look for us. I go further.”

“Damme, let him look for us! I’ll put a bullet through his black heart, so I will!”

Leonie paid no heed, but rode on with a wary eye on the look-out for shelter. Rupert, she knew, was losing blood fast, and could not long endure. To the right, in the distance, she saw a church spire, and made for it, a cold fear in her heart.

“Have courage, Rupert! Hold to me, and it will be very well!”

“Ay, I’m well enough,” said Rupert faintly. “Courage be damned! It’s not I who’d run away! Burn it, I can’t get my hand to the hole he’s made in me! Gently, gently, and ’ware rabbit-holes!”

A mile further the village was reached, a little peaceful haven, with its church sitting placidly by. Men working on the fields stared in amazement at the fleeing couple, but they rode on into the cobbled street, and up it till they came upon a tiny inn, with a swinging board over the door, and stables lying tumble-down about the yard.

Leonie reined in, and the horse stood quivering. An ostler gaped at them, mop in hand.

“You there!” Leonie called imperiously. “Come and help m’sieur to the ground! Quickly, great fool! He is wounded by—by highwaymen!”

The man looked fearfully down the road, but, seeing no dread footpad, came to do Leonie’s bidding. Then the landlord bustled out to see what was toward, an enormous man with a scratch wig on his head, and a twinkle in his eye. Leonie held out her hand to him.

“Ah, la bonne chance!” she cried. “Aid, m’sieur, I beg of you! We were travelling to Paris, and were set upon by a party of footpads.”

“Tare an’ ouns!” said Rupert. “Do you think I’d run from a parcel of greasy footpads? Think of another tale, for the love of God!”

The landlord slipped an arm about his lordship, and lifted him down. Leonie slid to the ground, and stood trembling.

“Mon Dieu, what an escape!” said the landlord. “These footpads! You, Hector! Take m’sieur’s legs, and help me bear him to a guest-chamber.”

“Devil take you, leave my legs alone!” swore Rupert. “I can—I can walk!”

But the landlord, a practical man, saw that he was almost fainting, and bore him without more ado up the stairs to a little chamber under the eaves. He and the ostler laid his lordship on the bed, and Leonie fell on her knees beside him.

“Oh, but he is wounded to death!” she cried. “Help me with his coat!”

Rupert opened his eyes.

“Fiddle!” he said, and sank into unconsciousness.

“Ah, an Englishman!” cried the landlord, struggling with his lordship’s tight-fitting coat.

“An English milor’,” nodded Leonie. “I am his page.”

“Tiens! One would know it was a great gentleman. Ah, the fine coat so spoiled! The shirt we must tear.” He proceeded to do so, and, turning my lord to his side, laid bare the wound. “It needs a surgeon, bien sur. Hector shall ride to Le Havre. These highwaymen!”

Leonie was busy staunching the blood.

“Yes, a surgeon!” She started. “Ah, but Le Havre! He will be—they will pursue us there!” She turned to the landlord. “Hector must know naught of us if he is questioned!”

The landlord was bewildered.

“No, no, they would not dare! The highwaymen keep to the open country, my child.”

“It—they were not—highwaymen,” Leonie confessed, blushing. “And I am not really Lord Rupert’s page.”

“Hein? What is this?” demanded the landlord.

“I—I am a girl,” said Leonie. “I am the ward of the English Duc of Avon, and—and Lord Rupert is his brother!”

The landlord stared from one to the other, and a mighty frown came.