“Rupert, Rupert, à moi!”
Even as she cried Saint-Vire’s hand was over her mouth and his other arm about her waist. Struggling madly she was swept from the ground and borne at a run to where the coach stood waiting. Without compunction she bit deeply into the hand over her mouth. There was a muttered oath, the hand flinched a little, and she jerked her head away to shriek again.
“Rupert, Rupert, on m’enporte! À moi, à moi, à moi!”
His voice came to her, nearer at hand.
“Who—what—? What the devil—?”
She was flung then into the coach, sprang up like a small fury, but was thrust roughly back again. She heard Saint-Vire give an order to the coachman; then he jumped in beside her, and the coach lurched forward.
Rupert came plunging out into the road, hot and dishevelled, just in time to see the coach disappear round the bend in the road, in the direction of the village.
He had suspected at first that Léonie was only teasing him, but her second cry had held a note of genuine alarm, while now there was no sign of her. With characteristic impetuosity he went headlong down the road in pursuit of the coach, never stopping to consider the wisdom of returning to the stables for his horse. Full-tilt he went, hatless, with torn ruffles, and wig askew. The coach was out of sight, but he ran on until he was blown. Then he dropped into a walk. When he had got his breath back he ran again, and had a grin for the comic figure he knew he must be cutting. He had no idea who had seized Léonie, or why, but he felt certain that she was in that coach. His fighting spirit was aroused, and, incidentally, his love of adventure: he determined to catch the coach if it cost him his life. So, alternately running and walking, he came at last to the straggling village, three miles distant, and seeing the first cottage, broke once more into a weary jog-trot.
The blacksmith was working in his yard, and looked up in astonishment as Rupert’s well-known figure approached.
“Hey, there!” Rupert panted. “A coach—passed this way. Where went—it?”
The smithy rose and touched his forelock.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Devil take you! The coach!”
“Yes, my lord, yes,” said the puzzled smith.
“Did—it—pass here?” demanded Rupert in stentorian tones.
Light broke upon the smith.
“Why, yes, your lordship, and stopped at the Arms. ’Tis gone this twenty minutes.”
“Curse it! Whither?”
The smith shook his head.
“Beg pardon, your lordship, but I was not watching.”
“You’re a fool,” said Rupert, and plodded on.
The landlord of the Avon Arms was more communicative. He came bustling out to meet his young lordship, and threw up his hands at sight of him.
“My lord! Why, your lordship has lost his hat! Your coat, sir—”
“Never mind my coat,” said Rupert. “Where went that coach?”
“The French gentleman’s coach, sir?”
Rupert had collapsed on to the settle, but he sat bolt upright now.
“French? French? So that’s it, is it? Oho, M. le Comte! But what the deuce does he want with Léonie?”
The landlord looked at him sympathetically, and waited for him to explain.
“Ale!” said Rupert, sinking back again. “And a horse, and a pistol.”
The landlord was more perplexed than ever, but he went off to fetch ale in a large tankard. Rupert disposed of it speedily, and drew a deep breath.
“Did the coach stop here?” he demanded. “Did you see my brother’s ward in it?”
“Mistress Léonie, my lord? No, indeed! The French gentleman did not alight. He was in a mighty hurry, sir, seemingly.”
“Scoundrel!” Rupert shook his fist, scowling.
Mr. Fletcher retreated a pace.
“Not you, fool,” said Rupert. “What did the coach stop for?”
“Why, sir, the reckoning was not paid, and the moossoo had left his valise. The servant jumps off the box, comes running in here to settle the reckoning with me, snatches up the valise, and was out of the place before I’d time to fetch my breath. They’re queer people, these Frenchies, my lord, for there was me never dreaming the gentleman proposed to leave today. Driving hell for leather, they was, too, and as good a team of horses as ever I see.”
“Rot his black soul!” fumed Rupert. “The devil’s in it now, and no mistake. A horse, Fletcher, a horse!”
“Horse, sir?”
“Burn it, would I want a cow? Horse, man, and quickly!”
“But, my lord—”
“Be hanged to your buts! Go find me a horse and a pistol!”
“But, my lord, I’ve no riding horses here! Farmer Giles hath a cob, but—”
“No horse? Damme, it’s disgraceful! Go and fetch the animal the smith’s shoeing now! Away with you!”
“But, my lord, that is Mr. Manvers’ horse, and—”
“Devil take Mr. Manvers! Here, I’ll go myself! No, stay! A pistol, man.”
The landlord was upset.
“My lord, it’s a touch of the sun must have got into your head!”
“Sun at this time of the year?” roared Rupert, thoroughly exasperated. “Go find me a pistol, sirrah!”
“Yes, my lord, yes!” said Fletcher, and retreated in haste.
Rupert set off down the road to the blacksmith’s, and found him whistling to himself as he worked.
“Coggin! Coggin, I say!”
The blacksmith paused.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Hurry with that shoe, my man! I want the horse.”
Coggin stared, open-mouthed.
“But—but ’tis not one of his Grace’s horses, sir—”
“Tare an’ ’ouns, would his Grace own such a brute? Do ye take me for a fool?”
“But ’tis Mr. Manvers’ roan, your lordship!”
“I don’t care if ’tis the devil’s own chestnut!” cried Rupert. “I want it, and that’s enough! How long before you have that shoe on?”
“Why, sir, twenty minutes, or maybe longer.”
“A guinea for you if you hasten!” Rupert searched in his pockets and produced two crowns. “And ask it of Fletcher,” he added, stowing the crowns away again. “Don’t sit staring at me, man! Hammer that shoe on, or I’ll take the hammer to knock sense into your head withal! Stap me if I won’t!”
Thus adjured, the smith set to with a will.
“The groom’s walked on to Fawley Farm, my lord,” he
