“Touché, b’gad!” he gasped. “On with you, you madcap!”

“Laisse moi, laisse moi!” she cried, and snatched the bridle from him, urging the frightened horse round the bend. “Hold to me, Rupert, it is well now.”

Rupert could still laugh.

“Well, it is? Gad—what a—chase! Steady, steady! There’s—lane—further down—turn into it—never reach—Le Havre.”

She twisted the bridle round her little hands, and pulled gallantly.

“He will mount one of those horses,” she said, thinking quickly. “And he will ride to Le Havre. Yes, yes, we will turn down the lane; Rupert, mon pauvre, are you badly hurt?”

“Right shoulder—’tis naught. There—should be—village. There’s the lane! Steady him, steady him! Good girl! Hey, what an adventure!”

They swept into the lane, saw cottages ahead, and a farm. Of impulse Léonie pulled up her mount, turned aside to the hedge, and made the horse push through into the fields. Then on she drove him, cross-country, at a canter.

Rupert was swaying in the saddle.

“What—will you be at?” he said hoarsely.

“Laisse moi!” she repeated. “That is too near the road. He would be sure to look for us. I go further.”

“Damme, let him look for us! I’ll put a bullet through his black heart, so I will!”

Léonie paid no heed, but rode on with a wary eye on the look-out for shelter. Rupert, she knew, was losing blood fast, and could not long endure. To the right, in the distance, she saw a church spire, and made for it, a cold fear in her heart.

“Have courage, Rupert! Hold to me, and it will be very well!”

“Ay, I’m well enough,” said Rupert faintly. “Courage be damned! It’s not I who’d run away! Burn it, I can’t get my hand to the hole he’s made in me! Gently, gently, and ’ware rabbit-holes!”

A mile further the village was reached, a little peaceful haven, with its church sitting placidly by. Men working on the fields stared in amazement at the fleeing couple, but they rode on into the cobbled street, and up it till they came upon a tiny inn, with a swinging board over the door, and stables lying tumble-down about the yard.

Léonie reined in, and the horse stood quivering. An ostler gaped at them, mop in hand.

“You there!” Léonie called imperiously. “Come and help m’sieur to the ground! Quickly, great fool! He is wounded by—by highwaymen!”

The man looked fearfully down the road, but, seeing no dread footpad, came to do Léonie’s bidding. Then the landlord bustled out to see what was toward, an enormous man with a scratch wig on his head, and a twinkle in his eye. Léonie held out her hand to him.

“Ah, la bonne chance!” she cried. “Aid, m’sieur, I beg of you! We were travelling to Paris, and were set upon by a party of footpads.”

“Tare an’ ouns!” said Rupert. “Do you think I’d run from a parcel of greasy footpads? Think of another tale, for the love of God!”

The landlord slipped an arm about his lordship, and lifted him down. Léonie slid to the ground, and stood trembling.

“Mon Dieu, what an escape!” said the landlord. “These footpads! You, Hector! Take m’sieur’s legs, and help me bear him to a guest-chamber.”

“Devil take you, leave my legs alone!” swore Rupert. “I can—I can walk!”

But the landlord, a practical man, saw that he was almost fainting, and bore him without more ado up the stairs to a little chamber under the eaves. He and the ostler laid his lordship on the bed, and Léonie fell on her knees beside him.

“Oh, but he is wounded to death!” she cried. “Help me with his coat!”

Rupert opened his eyes.

“Fiddle!” he said, and sank into unconsciousness.

“Ah, an Englishman!” cried the landlord, struggling with his lordship’s tight-fitting coat.

“An English milor’,” nodded Léonie. “I am his page.”

“Tiens! One would know it was a great gentleman. Ah, the fine coat so spoiled! The shirt we must tear.” He proceeded to do so, and, turning my lord to his side, laid bare the wound. “It needs a surgeon, bien sűr. Hector shall ride to Le Havre. These highwaymen!”

Léonie was busy staunching the blood.

“Yes, a surgeon!” She started. “Ah, but Le Havre! He will be—they will pursue us there!” She turned to the landlord. “Hector must know naught of us if he is questioned!”

The landlord was bewildered.

“No, no, they would not dare! The highwaymen keep to the open country, my child.”

“It—they were not—highwaymen,” Léonie confessed, blushing. “And I am not really Lord Rupert’s page.”

“Hein? What is this?” demanded the landlord.

“I—I am a girl,” said Léonie. “I am the ward of the English Duc of Avon, and—and Lord Rupert is his brother!”

The landlord stared from one to the other, and a mighty frown came.

“Ah, I see well! It is an elopement! Now I will tell you, mademoiselle, that I do not——”

“But no!” Léonie said. “It is that the—the man who pursues us stole me from the house of Monseigneur le Duc, and he drugged me, and brought me to France, and I think he would have killed me. But Milor’ Rupert came swiftly, and our coach lost a wheel, and I slipped out, and ran and ran and ran! Then milor’ came, and the man who stole me fired at him, and—and that is all!”

The landlord was incredulous.

“Voyons, what tale is this you tell me?”

“It is quite true,” sighed Léonie, “and when Monseigneur comes you will see that it is as I say. Oh please, you must help us!”

The landlord was not proof against those big, beseeching eyes.

“Well, well!” he said. “You are safe here, and Hector is discreet.”

“And you won’t let—that man—take us?”

The landlord blew out his cheeks.

“I am master here,” he said. “And I say that you are safe. Hector shall ride to Le Havre for a surgeon, but as for this talk of Ducs!” He shook his head indulgently, and sent a wide-eyed serving maid to fetch Madame, and some linen.

Madame came swiftly, a woman as large about as her husband, but comely withal. Madame cast one glance at Lord Rupert, and issued sharp orders, and began to rend linen. Madame would listen to nobody until she had tightly bound my Lord Rupert.

“Hé, le beau!” she said. “What wickedness! That goes better now.” She laid a plump finger to her lips, and stood billowing, her other hand on her hip. “He must be undressed,” she decided. “Jean, you will find a nightshirt.”

“Marthe,” interposed her husband. “This boy is a lady!”

“Quel horreur!” remarked Madame placidly. “Yes, it is best that we undress him, le pauvre!” She turned, and drove the peeping maid out, and Léonie with her, and shut the door on them.

Léonie wandered down the stairs and went out into the yard. Hector was already gone on his way to Le Havre; there was no one in sight, so Léonie sank wearily on to a bench hard by the kitchen window, and burst into tears.

“Ah, bah!” she apostrophized herself fiercely. “Bęte! Imbécile! Lâche!”

But the tears continued to flow. It was a damp, drooping little figure that met Madame’s eye when she came sailing out into the yard.

Madame, having heard the strange story from her husband, was properly shocked and wrathful. She stood with arms akimbo, and began severely:

“This is a great wickedness, mademoiselle! I would have you know that we——” She broke off, and went forward. “But no, but no, ma petite! There is nothing to cry about. Tais toi, mon chou! All will go well, trust Maman Marthe!” She enfolded Léonie in a large embrace, and in a few minutes a husky voice said, muffled:

“I am not crying!”

Madame shook with fat chuckles.

“I am not!” Léonie sat up. “But oh, I think I am very miserable, and I wish Monseigneur were here, for that man will surely find us, and Rupert is like one dead!”

“It is true then that there is a Duc?” Madame asked.

“Of course it is true!” said Léonie indignantly. “I do not tell lies!”

“An English Duc, alors? Ah, but they are of a wildness, these English! But thou—thou art French, little cabbage!”

“Yes,” said Léonie. “I am so tired I cannot tell you all now.”

“It is I who am a fool!” Madame cried. “Thou shalt to bed, mon ange, with some hot bouillon, and the wing of a fowl. That goes well, hein?”

“Yes, please,” Léonie answered. “But there is Milor’ Rupert, and I fear that he will die!”

“Little foolish one!” Madame scolded. “I tell thee—moi qui te parle—that it is well with him. It is naught. A little blood lost; much weakness—and that is all. It is thou who art nigh dead with fatigue. Now thou shalt come with me.”

So Léonie, worn out with the terrors and exertions of the past two days, was tucked up between cool sheets, fed, crooned over, and presently left alone to sleep.

When she awoke, the morning sun streamed in at the window, and sounds of bustle came from the street below. Madame was smiling at her from the doorway.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“Why—why it is morning!” she said. “Have I slept so long?”

“Nine of the clock, little sluggard. It is better now?”

“Oh, I am very well to-day!” Léonie said, and threw back the blankets. “But Rupert—the doctor——?”

“Doucement, doucement, said I not that it was naught? The doctor came when thou wert asleep, my cabbage, and in a little minute the bullet was out, and no harm done, by the grace of the good God. Milor’ lies on his pillows, and calls for food, and for thee.” Madame chuckled. “And when I bring him good broth he snatches the wig from his head, and demands red beef, as they have it in England. Dépęches toi, mon enfant.”