It was done in a flash.  From his crouched attitude he went, as it seemed, at one bound.  That same shock drove Gilles de Gurdun back among his people, and the same found Jehane caged in a hoop of steel.  So he affronting and she caught up stood together, for a moment.  With one mailed hand he held her fast under the armpit, with the other he held a fidgety sword.  His head was thrown back; through glimmering eyelids he watched them—­as one who says, What next?—­breathing short through his nose.  It was the attitude of the snatching lion, sudden, arrogant, shockingly swift; a gross deed, done in a flash which was its wonderful beauty.  While the company was panting at the shock—­for barely a minute—­he stood thus; and Jehane, quiet under so fierce a hold, leaned not upon him, but stood her own feet fairly, her calm brows upon a level with his chin.  Shameful if it was, at that moment of rude conquest she had no shame, and he no thought of shame.

Nor was there much time for thought at all.  Gurdun cried on the name of God and started forward; at the same instant Saint-Pol made a rush, and with him Des Barres.  Richard, with Jehane held close, went backwards on the way he had come in.  His long arm and long sword kept his distance; he worked them like a scythe.  None tackled him there, though they followed him up as dogs a boar in the forest; but old Gurdun, the father, ran round the other way to hold the west door.  Richard, having gained the nave and open country (as it were), went swiftly down it, carrying Jehane with ease; he found the strenuous old man before the door.  ‘Out of my way, De Gurdun,’ he cried in a high singing voice, ’or I shall do that which I shall be sorry for.’

‘Bloody thief,’ shouted old Gurdun, ‘add murder to the rest!’ Richard stretched his sword arm stiffly and swept him aside.  He tumbled back; the crowd received him—­priests, choristers, peasants, knights, all huddled together, baying like dogs.  Count Richard strode down the steps.

‘Alavi!  Alavia!’ sang Gaston, ‘this is a swift marriage!’ Richard, cooler than circumstances warranted, set Jehane on his saddle, vaulted up behind her, and as his pursuers were tumbling down the steps, cantered over the flags into the street.  Roussillon and Beziers, holding the bridge, saw him come.  ‘He has snatched his Sabine woman,’ said Beziers.  ‘Humph,’ said Roussillon; ‘now for beastly war.’  Richard rode straight between them at a hand-gallop; Gaston followed close, cheering his beast like a maniac.  Then the iron pair turned inwards and rode out together, taking the way he led them, the way of the Dark Tower.

The wonder of Gisors was all dismay when it was learned who this tall stranger was.  The Count of Poictou had ridden into his father’s country and robbed his father’s man of his wife.  We are ruled by devils in Normandy, then!  There was no immediate pursuit.  Saint-Pol knew where to find him; but (as he told William des Barres) it was useless to go there without some force.