If she could believe that Sir Nicholas would escape she might play with the fancy of him in pursuit, even now as she rode from him. She imagined him hard on her heels, spurring on and on, riding down this stately equipage. She could imagine how his sword would flash out, how he would snatch her up, and ride off with her, laughing, triumphant. She had to shake the tears from her eyes; the gay lover was caught and prisoned, and would no more come riding to win her.
They came within a stage of Vasconosa upon the tenth day. The labouring lackeys swore softly against such haste. “One would say the devil was on our heels.”
Dominica overheard the phrase. If Sir Nicholas had been behind they would be very sure the devil was on their heels, she thought.
There was a stream to be forded; the coach lurched down the bank, and the shallow waters lapped round the wheels. Dominica’s horse chose to jib at the stream, sidled, and backed, but was forced on. She went through, climbed the slope beyond, and reined in to await the coach. There was some trouble over this; the wheels sank into the mud of the streambed, and the great horses strained in vain. The men were all about the coach, pushing, gesticulating, arguing. It was decided to rope two saddle horses to the coach.
There came a thunder of hooves to the north, behind Dominica. She turned her head, and saw a troop riding towards her, ventre à terre. Her eyes narrowed in surprise; the horsemen came nearer, and she saw masked faces. She cried out in swift alarm, wheeled her horse about, and went quickly down the slope to where the coach still stuck in the stream. “Bandits!” she said. “A troop of masked men! Get to horse!”
The men left their task of extricating the coach. Two of the guards sprang into the saddle at once; the coachman got out his musket.
Doña Beatrice leaned back at her ease. “Did you say bandits, my dear? I can hardly credit it.”
“Masked men, señora. I know not, but I misliked what I saw.”
Doña Beatrice looked round at her bodyguard, and yawned. “Well, and if you did, my dear, we have guards enough to give them a fine scare. Do not be alarmed.”
“I am not alarmed,” said Dominica with dignity.
The troop appeared over the top of the slope, cloaked men, with gauze masks covering their faces. A shot sounded, there was a flash of steel; the bandits came scrambling down the slope to engage with Doña Beatrice’s bodyguard.
Dominica thought there were no more than six of them, but she could not be sure in the melee. Her heart beat fast, but there was something about this battle that made her draw her brows together, and look frowningly. There were pistol shots, but no man was wounded; swords flashed, but no man was cut down.
Doña Beatrice’s fan stopped waving. Her eyes were narrow all at once, and behind them her brain was moving quickly. She sat forward with a hand on the side of the coach, watching this odd fray.
Dominica knew a sudden, inexplicable fear. She brought her horse up close to the coach. “Señora—aunt—what is this?” she asked urgently.
“That is just what I am asking myself,” said Doña Beatrice calmly. “If these men are brigands they act as no brigands did that I ever heard of.”
A couple of the masked men spurred up to the coach; a hand seized Dominica’s bridle. She slashed at the masked face with her whip; the leather thong cut the mask across, and revealed an unshaven chin, a thick nose, and the fast rising weal of the whiplash. The whip was wrested from Dominica’s hand. She cried out to her guards:—“To me! To me, cravens!”
They were sheepish, laying down their arms, as though worsted in the fight. Yet there was not a man among them who had taken a hurt.
Dominica drove her heel in hard, struck at the hand on her bridle. Her horse plunged forward, but her captor jerked it up. “Help me, cowards!” Dominica cried furiously.
Doña Beatrice had half risen from her seat as though she would descend from the coach. She sank slowly back now, her eyes fixed under their drooping lids on a masked horseman who stood a little apart from the rest. She watched him turn his head to give an order to one of the men. She could not hear his voice, but she had no need to hear it. A woman should know her own son.
Her hand felt for her fan. Thoughtfully she looked at her niece, being forced on up the slope. A very infamous proceeding. She was surprised that Diego should think of such a scheme. Her shoulders shook slightly; meditatively she bit one fingernail. Should she put a stop to it or no? She had no doubt that a word from her would subdue Don Diego, but should that word be spoken? This was a crude performance, by her standards, but she admitted she could have thought of no surer way of reducing her niece to obedience.
She slightly raised her ample shoulders in a gesture of fatalism. Let Don Diego do as he chose: a girl never liked a man less for being shown the strong hand. She turned her attention to her screaming tirewoman. “I beg you will be quiet,” she said. “We are not attacked, and you do no good by
