“Merci!  I should believe so!” ejaculated M. de Chateaurien:  but he smothered the words upon his lips.

Her eyes were not lifted.  She went on:  “We come, in time, to believe that true feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true—­your true—­” She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply, and halting to a full stop in terror of a word.  There was a silence.

“Your—­true—­lover,” he said huskily.  When he had said that word both trembled.  She turned half away into the darkness of the coach.

“I know what make’ you to doubt me,” he said, faltering himself, though it was not his art that prompted him.  “They have tol’ you the French do nothing always but make love, is it not so?  Yes, you think I am like that.  You think I am like that now!”

She made no sign.

“I suppose,” he sighed, “I am unriz’nable; I would have the snow not so col’—­for jus’ me.”

She did not answer.

“Turn to me,” he said.

The fragrance of the fields came to them, and from the distance the faint, clear note of a hunting-horn.

“Turn to me.”

The lovely head was bent very low.  Her little gloved hand lay upon the narrow window ledge.  He laid his own gently upon it.  The two hands were shaking like twin leaves in the breeze.  Hers was not drawn away.  After a pause, neither knew how long, he felt the warm fingers turn and clasp themselves tremulously about his own.  At last she looked up bravely and met his eyes.  The horn was wound again—­nearer.

“All the cold was gone from the snows—­long ago,” she said.

“My beautiful!” he whispered; it was all he could say.  “My beautiful!” But she clutched his arm, startled.

“’Ware the road!” A wild halloo sounded ahead.  The horn wound loudly.  “’Ware the road!” There sprang up out of the night a flying thunder of hoof-beats.  The gentlemen riding idly in front of the coach scattered to the hedge-sides; and, with drawn swords flashing in the moon, a party of horsemen charged down the highway, their cries blasting the night.

“Barber!  Kill the barber!” they screamed.  “Barber!  Kill the barber!”

Beaucaire had but time to draw his sword when they were upon him.

“A moi!” his voice rang out clearly as he rose in his stirrups.  “A moi, Francois, Louis, Berquin!  A moi, Francois!”

The cavaliers came straight at him.  He parried the thrust of the first, but the shock of collision hurled his horse against the side of the coach.  “Sacred swine!” he cried bitterly.  “To endanger a lady, to make this brawl in a lady’s presence!  Drive on!” he shouted.

“No!” cried Lady Mary.

The Frenchman’s assailants were masked, but they were not highwaymen.  “Barber!  Barber!” they shouted hoarsely, and closed in on him in a circle.