"_Qui êtes-vous done, mon ami?_" inquired a hoarse, deep voice, a few yards
off.

"_Bon cheval, non_ beast, _sacré nom de Dieu!_" A hearty burst of laughter
prevented my hearing the conclusion of Mike's French.

I now crept forward upon my hands and knees, till I could catch the dark
outline of the horses, one hand fixed upon my pistol trigger, and my sword
drawn in the other. Meanwhile the dialogue continued.

"_Vous êtes d'Alsace, n'est-ce-pas?_" asked the Frenchman, kindly supposing
that Mike's French savored of Strasburg.

"Oh, blessed Virgin! av I might shoot him," was the muttered reply.

Before I had time to see the effect of the last speech, I pressed forward
with a bold spring, and felled the Frenchman to the earth. My hand had
scarcely pressed upon his mouth, when Hampden was beside me. Snatching up
the pistol I let fall, he held it to the man's chest and commanded him to
be silent. To unfasten his girdle and bind the Frenchman's hands behind
him, was the work of a moment; and as the sharp click of the pistol-cock
seemed to calm his efforts to escape, we soon succeeded in fastening a
handkerchief tight across his mouth, and the next minute he was placed
behind Mike's saddle, firmly attached to this worthy individual by his
sword-belt.

"Now, a clear run home for it, and a fair start," said Hampden, as he
sprang into the saddle.