The man fell back, dead before he hit the ground, his throat torn out by the slug from Mark's horse pistol. The coach was blue with the acrid stench of gunpowder smoke.
"Oh, Jacques! Don't let them get me! I love you so, Jacques—no matter what happens—"
Mark's arm was tight around Elaine. His face was taut and grim as they bounced onward. He fingered the haft of a broad-bladed knife in his belt.
"They won't get you! I promise it—"
Then, suddenly, their enemies were rushing to the attack again. From all sides they came. The point of a sword cut off Baroc's hoarse cry in mid-breath. He pitched from the box.
On through the night plunged the driverless coach, the horses mad with fright. A bridge loomed ahead. They raced for it like creatures from hell, flanks lathered, nostrils flaring.
Another rider tried to spring to the coach. Mark's knife flashed out. Drove home.
Then they were onto the bridge.
With a roar the coach jumped sidewise on the boards. Crashed into the flimsy railing. Tottered for a moment above the stream. Plunged backward into the water, dragging the horses with it.
Mark felt himself hurled back into one corner. His head smashed hard against something. Consciousness waned.