There sit those whom we avenge upon a presumptuous lackey.
Now, Whiffen, you have a fair audience, lay on and baste him."
Two men began to drag M. Beaucaire toward a great oak by the roadside.
Another took from his saddle a heavy whip with three thongs.
"A moi, Francois!"
There was borne on the breeze an answer--"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"
The cry grew louder suddenly. The clatter of hoofs urged to an anguish
of speed sounded on the night. M. Beaucaire's servants had lagged sorely
behind, but they made up for it now. Almost before the noise of their
own steeds they came riding down the moonlit aisle between the mists.
Chosen men, these servants of Beaucaire, and like a thunderbolt they
fell upon the astounded cavaliers.
"Chateaurien! Chateaurien!" they shouted, and smote so swiftly that,
through lack of time, they showed no proper judgment, discriminating
nothing between non-combatants and their master's foes. They charged
first into the group about M. Beaucaire, and broke and routed it
utterly. Two of them leaped to the young man's side, while the other
four, swerving, scarce losing the momentum of their onset, bore on upon
the gentlemen near the coach, who went down beneath the fierceness of
the onslaught, cursing manfully.
"Our just deserts," said Mr. Molyneux, his mouth full of dust and
philosophy.
Sir Hugh Guilford's horse fell with him, being literally ridden over,
and the baronet's leg was pinned under the saddle.
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