A horseman was riding close up on either side; but there was glass in front of the carriage, and through this he could gain some idea as to his whereabouts.  The clouds had cleared now, and the moon was shining brightly, bathing the whole wide landscape in its shimmering light.  To the right lay the open country, broad plains with clumps of woodland, and the towers of castles pricking out from above the groves.  A heavy bell was ringing in some monastery, and its dull booming came and went with the breeze.  On the left, but far away, lay the glimmer of Paris.  They were leaving it rapidly behind.  Whatever his destination, it was neither the capital nor Versailles.  Then he began to count the chances of escape.  His sword had been removed, and his pistols were still in the holsters beside his unfortunate horse.  He was unarmed, then, even if he could free himself, and his captors were at least a dozen in number.  There were three on ahead, riding abreast along the white, moonlit road.  Then there was one on each side, and he should judge by the clatter of hoofs that there could not be fewer than half a dozen behind.  That would make exactly twelve, including the coachman, too many, surely, for an unarmed man to hope to baffle.  At the thought of the coachman he had glanced through the glass front at the broad back of the man, and he had suddenly, in the glimmer of the carriage lamp, observed something which struck him with horror.

The man was evidently desperately wounded.  It was strange indeed that he could still sit there and flick his whip with so terrible an injury.  In the back of his great red coat, just under the left shoulder-blade, was a gash in the cloth, where some weapon had passed, and all round was a wide patch of dark scarlet which told its own tale.  Nor was this all.  As he raised his whip, the moonlight shone upon his hand, and De Catinat saw with a shudder that it also was splashed and clogged with blood.  The guardsman craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the man’s face; but his broad-brimmed hat was drawn low, and the high collar of his driving-coat was raised, so that his features were in the shadow.  This silent man in front of him, with the horrible marks upon his person, sent a chill to De Catinat’s valiant heart, and he muttered over one of Marot’s Huguenot psalms; for who but the foul fiend himself would drive a coach with those crimsoned hands and with a sword driven through his body?

And now they had come to a spot where the main road ran onwards, but a smaller side track wound away down the steep slope of a hill, and so in the direction of the Seine.  The advance-guard had kept to the main road, and the two horsemen on either side were trotting in the same direction, when, to De Catinat’s amazement, the carriage suddenly swerved to one side, and in an instant plunged down the steep incline, the two stout horses galloping at their topmost speed, the coachman standing up and lashing furiously at