He
fights as few gentlemen could. Ah--ah! Look at that! 'Tis a shame!"
On foot, his hat gone, his white coat sadly rent and gashed, flecked,
too, with red, M. Beaucaire, wary, alert, brilliant, seemed to transform
himself into a dozen fencing-masters; and, though his skill appeared
to lie in delicacy and quickness, his play being continually with
the point, sheer strength failed to beat him down. The young man was
laughing like a child.
"Believe me," said Molyneux "he's no barber! No, and never was!"
For a moment there was even a chance that M. Beaucaire might have the
best of it. Two of his adversaries were prostrate, more than one were
groaning, and the indomitable Frenchman had actually almost beat off the
ruffians, when, by a trick, he was overcome. One of them, dismounting,
ran in suddenly from behind, and seized his blade in a thick leather
gauntlet. Before Beaucaire could disengage the weapon, two others threw
themselves from their horses and hurled him to the earth. "A moi! A moi,
Francois!" he cried as he went down, his sword in fragments, but his
voice unbroken and clear.
"Shame!" muttered one or two of the gentlemen about the coach.
"'Twas dastardly to take him so," said Molyneux. "Whatever his
deservings, I'm nigh of a mind to offer him a rescue in the Duke's
face."
"Truss him up, lads," said the heavy voice. "Clear the way in front of
the coach.
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