“Oh, monseigneur!” Francois sprang back, and tossed his arms to heaven.

“But it did not happen,” said M. Beaucaire.

“It could not!” exclaimed Francois.

“No.  And you did very well, my children—­” the young man smiled benevolently—­“very well.  And now,” he continued, turning to Lady Mary and speaking in English, “let me be asking of our gallants yonder what make’ them to be in cabal with highwaymen.  One should come to a polite understanding with them, you think?  Not so?”

He bowed, offering his hand to conduct her to the coach, where Molyneux and his companions, having drawn Sir Hugh from under his horse, were engaged in reviving and reassuring Lady Rellerton, who had fainted.  But Lady Mary stayed Beaucaire with a gesture, and the two stood where they were.

“Monseigneur!” she said, with a note of raillery in her voice, but raillery so tender that he started with happiness.  His movement brought him a hot spasm of pain, and he clapped his hand to a red stain on his waistcoat.

“You are hurt!”

“It is nothing,” smiled M. Beaucaire.  Then, that she might not see the stain spreading, he held his handkerchief over the spot.  “I am a little—­but jus’ a trifling—­bruise’; ’tis all.”

“You shall ride in the coach,” she whispered.  “Will you be pleased, M. de Chateaurien?”

“Ah, my beautiful!” She seemed to wave before him like a shining mist.  “I wish that ride might las’ for always!  Can you say that, mademoiselle?”

“Monseigneur,” she cried in a passion of admiration, “I would what you would have be, should be.  What do you not deserve?  You are the bravest man in the world!”

“Ha, ha!  I am jus’ a poor Frenchman.”

“Would that a few Englishmen had shown themselves as ‘poor’ tonight.  The vile cowards, not to help you!” With that, suddenly possessed by her anger, she swept away from him to the coach.

Sir Hugh, groaning loudly, was being assisted into the vehicle.

“My little poltroons,” she said, “what are you doing with your fellow-craven, Sir Hugh Guilford, there?”

“Madam,” replied Molyneux humbly, “Sir Hugh’s leg is broken.  Lady Rellerton graciously permits him to be taken in.”

“I do not permit it!  M. de Chateaurien rides with us.”

“But—­”

“Sir!  Leave the wretch to groan by the roadside,” she cried fiercely, “which plight I would were that of all of you!  But there will be a pretty story for the gossips to-morrow!  And I could almost find pity for you when I think of the wits when you return to town.  Fine gentlemen you; hardy bravos, by heaven! to leave one man to meet a troop of horse single-handed, while you huddle in shelter until you are overthrown and disarmed by servants!  Oh, the wits!  Heaven save you from the wits!”

“Madam.”

“Address me no more!  M. de Chateaurien, Lady Rellerton and I will greatly esteem the honor of your company.  Will you come?”