Suddenly another pistol-shot rang out. The newcomer had fired at Roger's back. Fortunately, as he was riding full tilt, his aim was bad, and low. The bullet struck the rear projection of the mare's saddle with a loud thud, ricocheted off and whistled through the sleeve of Roger's coat, tearing the flesh of his left arm above the elbow. The pain was as though he had been seared with a red-hot iron, and a sudden warm wetness below the wound told him that he was bleeding badly. But his fingers still clutched the mare's reins and answered to his pressure.
He knew that his situation was now near desperate. For help to arrive within a few moments on that lonely road, at such an hour, would be little short of a miracle. He still held his sword, and at the price of savage pain could control his mount. But at any moment one of the two unwounded men might wound him again, and this time fatally.
Hastily disengaging his blade he pulled his mare back on her haunches, and half-turned her to meet his new attacker. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the coach. Now that it had been freed from its hold-up the old lady had got back into it and was seizing the chance to escape. The vehicle was already in movement, and the coachman lashing his horses wildly. At a lumbering gallop it careered off down the road.
The man who had fired the pistol drew his sword. He came at Roger in the same instant that the other renewed his attack. Roger was now between them, so at a grave disadvantage. His peril made him gasp; but his wits did not desert him. In a desperate attempt to get out of his dangerous situation he parried one thrust, ducked the other, and spurred his mare forward. Then, as she shot past his latest antagonist, he delivered a swift sideways cut at the man's head.
The sudden move took the fellow off his guard. The point of Roger's sword caught the corner of his eye and slashed his face down to the chin. His mask fell off and blood spurted from the ugly wound. With a howl of rage and pain, he clapped his free hand to his face. Half-blinded by blood, he reeled in his saddle and his horse ambled off with him to the side of the road.
Roger had barely time to realize that he had put one of his opponents out of the fight before the other was on him again. Once more their swords clashed and slithered. Weak now from loss of blood he knew that unless he could end matters quickly he would be done. Exerting all his remaining strength in a fierce downward sweep, he followed it with a swift lunge.
His first movement beat down his antagonist's blade, the second pierced his right side. But the force of the man's own thrust had not been fully spent. His sword entered Roger's boot above the ankle, tore through the tendons on the inner side of his foot, came out at the back of the boot and buried its point in the flank of his mare.
As she whinnied with pain, and reared in an attempt to throw him, Roger caught a glimpse of his enemy. His face had suddenly gone deathly white beneath his mask and his sword had fallen from his hand. Next second Roger's mare lowered her head, dragging fiercely at the reins, lifted it again, and plunged wildly forward down the hill.
Roger still held his drawn sword in one hand; his other was weakened from the first wound he had received. His instep, too, was now paining him so severely that he could no longer exert the full grip of his right knee on the saddle. As the mare dashed down the slope it was all he could do to keep his balance.
In an effort to check her wild career he hauled on the reins, but all he succeeded in doing was to pull her head round slightly to the left. Leaving the road, she galloped through the clearing among the trees out on to the open heath.
For over a quarter of a mile he fought to regain control of her, while she avoided ditches and foxholes only by a miracle. His efforts gradually became weaker and he realized that he was powerless to do anything until she slowed down of her own accord. Suddenly she stumbled, recovered, shivered violently; then, without warning, fell to her knees, pitching him forward over her head.
He let go the reins and flung out both hands in an attempt to save himself. His left arm doubled under him, his forehead struck the hilt of his out-thrust sword, and the blow knocked him unconscious.
It was some time before he came to; but when he did the pain from his wounds swiftly brought back to him .the events which had led to his having been flung there, face downward in the young bracken. After a moment he raised himself on his good elbow and turned over. As he moved his injured foot the stab of pain from it was so acute that he gasped and shut his eyes. When he opened them he realized that it was now nearly dark.
Gingerly settling himself a trifle more comfortably he looked about him. He was lying in a shallow-bottomed gully, so he could not see more than half a dozen yards in any direction; but a faint, pinkish-orange glow breaking the dark night sky over his right shoulder told him that he was facing south-east, so the road must be somewhere in his rear.
From that he judged that his pull on the left-hand rein of the mare must have brought her round nearly in a half-circle before she threw him. Anxiously he looked to right and left in search of her; then screwed his head round as far as it would go. There she was, immediately behind him, about three yards away on the slope of the gully. She was lying quite still on her side, with her near hind leg sticking stiffly out at an angle. The light was still just sufficient for him to see a dark pool on the ground in front of her where the blood had poured from the wound in her neck. One glance was enough to tell him that she was dead.
He wondered what the devil he was going to do now. Night was fast approaching and he doubted very much if he could stagger even as far as the road. His head, foot and arm were all hurting him abominably. From the latter he had lost quite a lot of blood, and it was still bleeding. If he could not get his wounds attended to he might quite well die of weakness and cold before morning.
The coach had driven off; but even had he believed it to be still in the vicinity he would not have dared to shout for help. He
Nevertheless he knew that he must get help somehow. All over France wolves still abounded. In winter they often invaded villages and. made fierce by hunger, attacked men as well as women and children. Even now, when they had retired to their lairs in the higher ground, they still came down to roam the more desolate areas at night in search of stray cattle. Weakened as he was he knew with a horrid sinking feeling that he might easily fall a prey to them.
He felt that whatever pain it cost him he must somehow manage to crawl back to the roadside, as only there would he have any chance to attract the attention of some late passer-by. To do that was to risk an encounter with one of the highwaymen, but it was a gamble that had to be taken. To remain lying where he had fallen was to invite death, and perhaps a horrible death, in a ditch.
Turning over on his stomach he got slowly to his knees. Then he began to crawl forward, dragging his wounded foot behind him. He had not covered more than four feet when it knocked against a stone. The spasm of agony that went through him was so acute that he nearly fainted.
For a moment he lay there dizzy and helpless. As he did so the monstrous ill-luck of which he had been the victim came to his mind again. But for that chance encounter he would by now be dining in the warmth and comfort of the inn at Nevers. By interfering in someone else's quarrel, he had had his mare killed, was grievously wounded and likely to die himself.
Suddenly he began to curse, loud, long and fluently, in English, French and German. Then, as he paused at last from lack of breath, a soft voice just behind him said:
'Hush, Monsieur, I pray! That is no language to use in the presence of a lady.'
Jerking round his head he stared up at the cloaked and hooded figure of a woman. It was now too dark to see her face, but he would have known that voice anywhere. It was that of Isabella d'Aranda.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE ROAD TO THE SOUTH
ROGER drew a hand wearily across his eyes. He could only suppose that the state to which he had been reduced had sent him temporarily off his head, and that he was suffering from an hallucination. But the cloaked figure ran down the bank, sank in a flurry of skirts beside him, and grasped his hands. He caught a heady whiff of the scent of gardenias, and the soft voice came again.
