“Forward!” she cries, waving it above her head. “Forward, guards of his regiment; rescue him or die!”
She has put her horse in motion as she speaks, and with the rush of a whirlwind the White Guards bear down upon the prison-van. The policemen catch sight of them coming, and close around it manfully. The driver whips up the horses, and urges them along at a canter. “Of what avail?” The White Guards are upon them; nothing can withstand the charge. It is the work of a moment.
“Sever the traces; cut the horses loose!” shouts Flora Desmond, as she gallops up alongside one of the animals, and, seizing its rein, brings it up on to its haunches, one of the troopers doing likewise by the other.
They obey her promptly and rapidly, while the remainder engage the police escort, who resist gallantly. “Of what avail?” The crowd has closed round, willing and eager to assist in the work of rescue. The odds are too great to allow the representatives of law and order to prevail.
Twice over Flora Desmond has summoned the policeman inside to unlock the door of the van, but he stands to his guns and refuses. “If you do not,” she cries, “I shall be forced to fire through the lock until I break it, and the bullets may injure you. Come, man, no use resisting now.”
But the policeman is staunch in the performance of what he considers his duty, and remains firm in his determination not to betray his trust.
“Then throw yourself flat on the ground, my man,” again calls out Flora Desmond, “for I am going to fire.”
She pauses for a moment to give him time to obey, then raises a revolver, and fires once, twice, thrice through the lock, which gives way at last. The crowd cheers loudly, the door of the van is flung open, and in a moment Flora Desmond is beside Gloria de Lara.
“Thank God!” she exclaims. “Here, come this way. I have a horse all ready for you.”
The policeman is lying motionless on the floor of the van. The two step across him, and pass quickly out of the wheeled prison. As they do so the people press forward to welcome their hero, for to them, in spite of the rumours, Gloria de Lara is still Hector D’Estrange. She has mounted her horse, and raised her hand to enjoin silence. The police escort has been overcome; its members are passively accepting what to them is the inevitable. They have sought to do their duty. They can do no more.