“Is there the need to answer?” quoth the girl scornfully. “Surely you forget that I am Mademoiselle de Bellecour, daughter of the Marquise de Bellecour, and that this man is of the canaille, else you had never asked the question.”
With an expression of satisfaction the Marquise was sinking back in the carriage, when of a sudden she sat bolt upright.
“Someone is riding very desperately,” she cried, a note of alarm ringing in her voice.
Above the thud of the coach-horses' hoofs and the rumble of their vehicle sounded now the clatter of someone galloping madly in their wake. Mademoiselle looked from the window into the gathering dusk.
“It will be some courier, Madame,” she answered calmly. “None other would ride at such a pace.”
“I shall know no rest until we are safely in a Christian country again,” the Marquise complained.
The hoof-beats grew nearer, and the dark figure of a horseman dashed suddenly past the window. Simultaneously, a loud, harsh command to halt rang out upon the evening air.
The Marquise clutched at her daughter's arm with one hand, whilst with the other she crossed herself, as though their assailant were some emissary of the powers of evil.
“Mother in Heaven, deliver us!” she gasped, turning suddenly devout.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Mademoiselle, who had recognised the voice that was now haranguing the men on the box—their driver and the ostler of the 'Eagle Inn.' “It is La Boulaye himself.”