My teeth clicked rigid. I saw, ahead of us, a tall careless figure lounge into the open and stop over against the door of the carriage. At the same moment inspiration came to the commissary. His gaze was introspective. He had not yet noticed the direction of ours. He slapped his hand to his thigh as he hurried forward. “_Mon Dieu!_” cried he, “it is simple. Why did I not think of it sooner? Prove, then, thy knowledge of this Englishman by giving me his name!” With the very words I set off running. A startled cry, to which I paid no heed, pursued me. “I hold a hostage! I hold a hostage!” screamed the commissary; and immediately, as I understood, nipped Carinne by the elbow. But by then I was come up with the stranger. He turned and received me straddle-legged, his eyes full of a passionless alertness. I lost not an instant. “Monsieur,” I panted, “we are fugitive aristocrats. In the name of God, help us!” I could have adored him for his reception of this astounding appeal. He never moved a muscle. “_Tout droit!_” said he; “but give us the tip!” “Riouffe is dead” (his eyelids twitched at that)--“I have his passports. I am Riouffe--and this is madame, my wife.” Simultaneously, in the instant of my speaking, the frantic commissary brought up Carinne, and, to a metallic clang of hoofs, our fateful post-boy issued from the inn-yard in charge of his cattle. For a moment the situation was absolutely complete and dramatic,--the agonised suitor proposing; the humorous and heroic _nonchalant_ disposing; the petrified jockey, right; the hostage _chevalière_ in the grasp of the heavy villain, left. Then all converged to the central interest, and destroyed the admirable effectiveness of the tableau. “Goddam milor’ the Englishman!” shrieked the commissary; “he does not know thy name!” The stranger put out a hand as he stood, and clapped me on the shoulder so that I winced. “Riouffe!” he cried, in a very bantering voice--“not know his friend Jack Comely!” (“_ne savoir pas son ami Jack Comely--pooh!_”) “That he will swear to, my Jack,” said I. The commissary released Carinne, and fell back gasping. “_Pardon! les bras m’en tombent!_” he muttered, in dismayed tones, and went as white and mottled as a leg of raw mutton. But the stranger advanced to Carinne, with a blush and a gallant bow. “Madame,” said he, “I cannot sufficiently curse my impatience for having cut you out of a stage. It was an error. _Entrez, s’il vous plait._”