“Were it Lafemas himself,” cried De Blenau, “this must not be! En avant pour la France!” and dashing his rowels into the horse’s side, he galloped headlong down the road, followed by the Woodman, the Page, and the redoubtable Jacques Chatpilleur.
Two moments brought them to the scene of the combat, and the moon shining out seemed expressly to light the fray. The one party was evidently to be distinguished by their black habits, the other by their rusty cuirasses and morions. Directly in the way of De Blenau was the Cavalier he had marked as he passed, contending with a man of almost gigantic strength; but, notwithstanding the superior force of the latter, his antagonist still foiled him by his skilful defence, when suddenly one of the robbers on foot attacked the Cavalier also behind. Thus beset, he turned to strike him down, when the tremendous Norman (for it was no other) caught his bridle rein, and urging the horse back, threw him to the ground. The robber on foot shortened the pike he carried to plunge it in his body. But by this time De Blenau’s party had come up; and the courageous aubergiste galloping on, bore the point of his long sword in a direct line forward, which catching the pikeman just below the cuirass, spitted him, to use Jacques Chatpilleur’s own expression, just like a widgeon.
In the mean while, the Norman had turned upon De Blenau, and snapped a pistol at his head, which, however, missed fire. Enraged at his disappointment, he threw the weapon from him, and spurring on his horse, aimed a tremendous blow at the Count, which was instantly parried, and returned by a straightforward lunge that cut him above the eye, and deluged his face in blood. Mad with the pain, and half-blinded with the gore, Marteville attempted once more the feat by which he had overthrown his former antagonist; and, catching De Blenau’s rein, urged his horse back with Herculean strength. In vain the Count spurred him forward; he sank upon his haunches, and was floundering in the fall, when De Blenau, finding it inevitable, let go the rein, fixed his knees firm in the saddle, and raising his sword with both hands, discharged it with all his force upon the head of the Norman. The true steel passed clear on, hewed through the iron morion, cleft through hair and skull, and sank deep into his brain. He reeled in the saddle; his hands let go their grasp, and he fell headlong to the ground, while the horse of De Blenau, suddenly released from the pressure, rose up, and plunging forward trod him under its feet. De Blenau lost not his presence of mind for a moment, and while his horse was yet in the spring, he aimed a blow at the Gros St. Nicolas, who had been hurrying to the assistance of his captain, which disabled his shoulder, and threw him from his horse. “Sauve qui peut!” cried the Robber, starting up on his feet and running for the wood, “Sauve qui peut! The Captain is dead!”
“Sauve qui peut! Sauve qui peut!” rang among the Robbers, and in a few minutes De Blenau and his party were left masters of the field. The Count drew up his horse, exclaiming, “Do not follow! Do not follow! Let us look to the wounded;” and dismounting, he hurried to assist the fallen Cavalier, who was struggling to disengage himself from his horse.
“Next to God, Sir, I have to thank you,” said the stranger, as soon as he had risen. “But—is it possible! Monsieur de Blenau!” he exclaimed as the moonlight gleamed on the countenance of the Count. “God of heaven, I thought you were in Spain long ago!”
“Monsieur de Chavigni! or I am mistaken,” said De Blenau. “But I know that I can trust to your honour, and therefore must say, that though my late illness may have rendered me an outlaw, by detaining me in France after my sentence of exile, yet I will not regret it, as it has given me the opportunity of serving the man to whom I am indebted for my life.—There, Sir, is my hand.”
Chavigni embraced him warmly. “Let us look to the men who are wounded, Monsieur de Blenau,” said he, “and then I will give you a piece of news which, however painful to me, will be satisfactory to you.—Cannot some one strike a light, that we may examine more carefully what has occurred on this unhappy spot; for I see many on the earth.”
“It shall be done in the turning of a spit, Monseigneur,” said Jacques Chatpilleur, who had already collected some dry wood; and who now quickly produced a fire by means of the flint of a pistol.
The scene that presented itself was a sad one. On the earth lay two of Chavigni’s servants dead, and one desperately wounded. To these was added Henri de La Mothe, who had received a severe cut on the head, and was stunned with the blow. Not far from the body of the Norman lay his companion Callot, who was the pikeman despatched by the bellicose aubergiste. In addition to these was a robber, whose head had been nearly severed from his body by the cutlas which was borne by Philip the woodman, in his capacity of Lieutenant of the King’s forests; and one so severely wounded by a pistol-ball from the hand of Chavigni, that his companions had been obliged to abandon him. From him they learned that the attack upon Chavigni had been preconcerted; that understanding he was bending his steps towards Montpellier, Marteville had obtained exact information of his course; and finding that he must pass through the forest by Viviers, had laid in wait for him, with the expectation both of revenge and plunder.
“And now, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Chavigni, as soon as their investigation ended, “whither does your immediate path lay? You know you can trust me.”