“It cannot be done without cutting his throat,” said Bold, despondingly, regretting the while, not so much a necessity for bloodshed, as his own sorry chance of carrying out the adventure with a whole skin.
“Of course not,” assented the Abbé. “Why, he was in the Grey Musketeers of the King!”
“To-night, you say,” continued the captain, in the same mournful tone. “I wonder if he rides that bay with the white heels. I’ve seen him turn the horse on a sixpence, and he’s twice as heavy as my mare.”
Again Malletort laughed his low, mocking laugh.
“Fear not,” said he; “there need be no personal collision on foot or on horseback. Sir George travels by the heavy post-coach, like any fat grazier or cattle-dealer, whom you may bid ‘Stand and deliver’ without a qualm.”
“By the coach!” repeated Bold, his face brightening. “That’s a different job altogether. That makes the thing much more like business, especially if there’s many passengers. You see, they frighten and hamper one another. Why, if there’s a stoutish old woman or two anyways near him, it’s as likely as not they’ll pinion Sir George by both arms, and hold on till we’ve finished, screaming awful, of course! But you won’t make any difference in the price on account of the coach, now, will you? Even chancing the old women, you see, we’re very short-handed to do it clean.”
“I have said more than once, name your own price,” answered the Abbé. “I deduct nothing for a friend whom I will myself place by Sir George’s side, and who will do the pinioning you speak of more effectually, if with less noise, than a ton of old women. How many hands can you muster?”
“Mounted, of course?” replied the captain. “There’s myself, and Blood Humphrey, and Black George. I don’t think I can count on any others, but we ought to have one more to do it handsome.”
“I will come with you myself,” said the Abbé. “I have a horse here in the stable, and better arms than any of you.”
The captain stared aghast, but so great was the respect with which Malletort inspired his subordinates, that he never dreamed for an instant of dissuading the Abbé from an adventure which he might have thought completely out of a churchman’s line. On the contrary, satisfied that whatever the chief of the plot undertook would be well accomplished, he looked admiringly in his principal’s face, and observed—