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!"