“See how he use his steel!” laughed M. Beaucaire, as his point passed through a tawdry waistcoat.  For a moment he cut through the ring and cleared a space about him, and Lady Mary saw his face shining in the moonlight.  “Canaille!” he hissed, as his horse sank beneath him; and, though guarding his head from the rain of blows from above, he managed to drag headlong from his saddle the man who had hamstrung the poor brute.  The fellow came suddenly to the ground, and lay there.

“Is it not a compliment,” said a heavy voice, “to bring six large men to subdue monsieur?”

“Oh, you are there, my frien’!  In the rear—­a little in the rear, I think.  Ha, ha!”

The Frenchman’s play with his weapon was a revelation of skill, the more extraordinary as he held in his hand only a light dress sword.  But the ring closed about him, and his keen defense could not avail him for more than a few moments.  Lady Mary’s outriders, the gallants of her escort, rode up close to the coach and encircled it, not interfering.

“Sir Hugh Guilford!” cried Lady Mary wildly, “if you will not help him, give me your sword!” She would have leaped to the ground, but Sir Hugh held the door.

“Sit quiet, madam,” he said to her; then, to the man on the box, “Drive on.”

“If he does, I’ll kill him!” she said fiercely.  “Ah, what cowards!  Will you see the Duke murdered?”

“The Duke!” laughed Guilford.  “They will not kill him, unless—­be easy, dear madam, ’twill be explained.  Gad’s life!” he muttered to Molyneux, “’Twere time the varlet had his lashing!  D’ye hear her?”

“Barber or no barber,” answered Molyneux, “I wish I had warned him.  He fights as few gentlemen could.  Ah—­ah!  Look at that!  ’Tis a shame!”

On foot, his hat gone, his white coat sadly rent and gashed, flecked, too, with red, M. Beaucaire, wary, alert, brilliant, seemed to transform himself into a dozen fencing-masters; and, though his skill appeared to lie in delicacy and quickness, his play being continually with the point, sheer strength failed to beat him down.  The young man was laughing like a child.

“Believe me,” said Molyneux “he’s no barber!  No, and never was!”

For a moment there was even a chance that M. Beaucaire might have the best of it.  Two of his adversaries were prostrate, more than one were groaning, and the indomitable Frenchman had actually almost beat off the ruffians, when, by a trick, he was overcome.  One of them, dismounting, ran in suddenly from behind, and seized his blade in a thick leather gauntlet.  Before Beaucaire could disengage the weapon, two others threw themselves from their horses and hurled him to the earth.  “A moi!  A moi, Francois!” he cried as he went down, his sword in fragments, but his voice unbroken and clear.

“Shame!” muttered one or two of the gentlemen about the coach.

“’Twas dastardly to take him so,” said Molyneux.  “Whatever his deservings, I’m nigh of a mind to offer him a rescue in the Duke’s face.”