"Viscount! viscount!" shouted the voice. "Stop! stop! stop, old Pompée!"
"It is some one who knows us, some one who knows we are carrying money to Madame la Princesse, some one who knows we are conspirators; we shall be broken on the wheel alive!"
"Stop! stop!" the voice persisted.
"They are shouting to some one to stop us," said Pompée; "they have some one ahead of us; we are surrounded!"
"Suppose we turn into the field, and let them pass?"
"A good idea," said Pompée; "let us try it."
They guided their horses with rein and knee at the same time, and turned to the left; the viscount's mount, skilfully handled, leaped the ditch, but Pompée's heavier beast took off too late, the ground gave way under his feet, and he fell, carrying his rider down with him. The squire emitted a shriek of despair.
The viscount, who was already fifty paces away, heard his cry of distress, and although sadly frightened himself, turned and rode back to his companion.
"Mercy!" howled Pompée. "Ransom! I surrender; I belong to the house of Cambes!"
A loud shout of laughter was the only response to this pitiful appeal; and the viscount, riding up at that moment, saw Pompée embracing the stirrup of the conqueror, who, in a voice choking with laughter, was trying to reassure him.