“Stop the coach!”
Probably the command was given over the persuasive point of a weapon, for the animals were drawn up with a quick jerk and came to a standstill in the middle of the road. Menacing and abusive, as the vehicle stopped, the warder’s hand sought one of his pockets, when the young girl impetuously caught his arm, clinging to it tenaciously.
“Quick!––Mr. Saint-Prosper!” she cried, recognizing, as she thought, the voice of the soldier.
“You wild-cat!” her jailer exclaimed, struggling to throw her off.
Not succeeding, he raised his free arm in a flurry of invective.
“Curse you, will you let go!”
“Quick! Quick!” she called out, holding him more tightly.
A flood of Billingsgate flowed from his lips. “Let go, or––”
But before he could in his blind passion strike her or otherwise vent his rage, a revolver was clapped to his face through the window, and, with a look of surprise and terror, his valor oozing from him, he crouched back on the cushions. At the same time the carriage door was thrown open, and Edward Mauville, the patroon, stood in the entrance!