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."

"Truss him up, lads," said the heavy voice. "Clear the way in front of
the coach. There sit those whom we avenge upon a presumptuous lackey.
Now, Whiffen, you have a fair audience, lay on and baste him."

Two men began to drag M. Beaucaire toward a great oak by the roadside.
Another took from his saddle a heavy whip with three thongs.

"A moi, Francois!"

There was borne on the breeze an answer--"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"
The cry grew louder suddenly. The clatter of hoofs urged to an anguish
of speed sounded on the night. M. Beaucaire's servants had lagged sorely
behind, but they made up for it now. Almost before the noise of their
own steeds they came riding down the moonlit aisle between the mists.
Chosen men, these servants of Beaucaire, and like a thunderbolt they
fell upon the astounded cavaliers.