There fell a clear September night, when the moon was radiant over town and country, over cobbled streets and winding roads. From the fields the mists rose slowly, and the air was mild and fragrant, while distances were white and full of mystery. All of Bath that pretended to fashion or condition was present that evening at a fete at the house of a country gentleman of the neighborhood. When the stately junket was concluded, it was the pleasure of M. de Chateaurien to form one of the escort of Lady Mary's carriage for the return. As they took the road, Sir Hugh Guilford and Mr.
Bantison, engaging in indistinct but vigorous remonstrance with Mr. Molyneux over some matter, fell fifty or more paces behind, where they continued to ride, keeping up their argument. Half a dozen other gallants rode in advance, muttering among themselves, or attended laxly upon Lady Mary's aunt on the other side of the coach, while the happy Frenchman was permitted to ride close to that adorable window which framed the fairest face in England.
He sang for her a little French song, a song of the voyageur who dreamed of home. The lady, listening, looking up at the bright moon, felt a warm drop upon her cheek, and he saw the tears sparkling upon her lashes.
"Mademoiselle," he whispered then, "I, too, have been a wanderer, but my dreams were not of France; no, I do not dream of that home, of that dear country. It is of a dearer country, a dream country - a country of gold and snow," he cried softly, looking it her white brow and the fair, lightly powdered hair above it. "Gold and snow, and the blue sky of a lady's eyes!""I had thought the ladies of France were dark, sir.
"Cruel! It is that she will not understan'! Have I speak of the ladies of France? No, no, no! It is of the faires' country; yes, 'tis a province of heaven, mademoiselle. Do I not renounce my allegiance to France? Oh, yes! I am subjec' - no, content to be slave - in the lan' of the blue sky, the gold, and the snow.
"A very pretty figure," answered Lady Mary, her eyes downcast. "But does it not hint a notable experience in the making of such speeches?""Tormentress! No. It prove only the inspiration it is to know you.""We English ladies hear plenty of the like sir; and we even grow brilliant enough to detect the assurance that lies beneath the courtesies of our own gallants.""Merci! I should believe so!" ejaculated M. de Chateaurien: but he smothered the words upon his lips.
Her eyes were not lifted. She went on: "We come, in time, to believe that true feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true - your true - " She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply, and halting to a full stop in terror of a word. There was a silence.
"Your - true - lover," he said huskily. When he had said that word both trembled. She turned half away into the darkness of the coach.
"I know what make' you to doubt me," he said, faltering himself, though it was not his art that prompted him. "They have tol' you the French do nothing al - ways but make love, is it not so? Yes, you think I am like that. You think I am like that now!"She made no sign.
"I suppose," he sighed, "I am unriz'nable; I would have the snow not so col' - for jus' me."She did not answer.
"Turn to me," he said.
The fragrance of the fields came to them, and from the distance the faint, clear note of a hunting-horn.
"Turn to me.
The lovely head was bent very low. Her little gloved hand lay upon the narrow window ledge. He laid his own gently upon it. The two hands were shaking like twin leaves in the breeze. Hers was not drawn away. After a pause, neither knew how long, he felt the warm fingers turn and clasp themselves tremulously about his own. At last she looked up bravely and met his eyes. The horn was wound again - nearer.
"All the cold was gone from the snows - long ago," she said.
"My beautiful!" he whispered; it was all he could say. "My beautiful!" But she clutched his arm, startled.
"'Ware the road!" A wild halloo sounded ahead. The horn wound loudly. "'Ware the road!" There sprang up out of the night a flying thunder of hoof-beats. The gentlemen riding idly in front of the coach scattered to the hedge-sides; and, with drawn swords flashing in the moon, a party of horsemen charged down the highway, their cries blasting the night.
"Barber! Kill the barber!" they screamed. "Barber! Kill the barber!"Beaucaire had but time to draw his sword when they were upon him.
"A moi!" his voice rang out clearly as he rose in his stirrups. "Amoi, Francois, Louis, Berquin! A moi, Francois!"The cavaliers came straight at him. He parried the thrust of the first, but the shock of collision hurled his horse against the side of the coach. "Sacred swine!" he cried bitterly. "To endanger a lady, to make this brawl in a lady's presence! Drive on!" he shouted.
"No!" cried Lady Mary.
The Frenchman's assailants were masked, but they were not highwaymen.
"Barber! Barber!" they shouted hoarsely, and closed in on him in a circle.
"See how he use his steel!" laughed M. Beaucaire, as his point passed through a tawdry waistcoat. For a moment he cut through the ring and cleared a space about him, and Lady Mary saw his face shining in the moonlight. "Canaille!" he hissed, as his horse sank beneath him;and, though guarding his head from the rain of blows from above, he managed to drag headlong from his saddle the man who had hamstrung the poor brute. The fellow came suddenly to the ground, and lay there.
"Is it not a compliment," said a heavy voice, "to bring six large men to subdue monsieur?""Oh, you are there, my frien'! In the rear - a little in the rear, I think. Ha, ha!"The Frenchman's play with his weapon was a revelation of skill, the more extraordinary as he held in his hand only a light dress sword.
But the ring closed about him, and his keen defense could not avail him for more than a few moments. Lady Mary's outriders, the gallants of her escort, rode up close to the coach and encircled it, not interfering.
