“Be off, canaille!” he said, and turned to the door. “Bring her out,” he cried, “but so much as a bruise and I’ll kill you both.” And there appeared in the doorway two ruffians, bearing my sister between them. Then I understood, and my blood turned to fire. How I did it, I know no more now than I did then, but I sprang upon them and flung them right and left--one crashing against the door-post, the other backward into the road that I might stamp his life out. I heard a curse behind me, and a whip was brought hissing down across my face--see, there is the scar, just at the corner of my eye. But I turned on him like the wild beast I in that moment felt myself to be and dragged him down from the saddle. I knew the others would be upon me, that I could not escape, but I prayed Christ that I might kill him first. I had him by the throat, bending him backward; I saw his eyes start, his tongue swell--and then heavy steps behind me. I waited the stab that I knew must come. Ah, my brave sister! it was you who saved me, seizing my sword from the scabbard as it hung just within the door, and using it how well! One rode away hot-foot, in safety. The others lay where they had fallen, and we staring down at them. Then my sister looked at the red blade in her hand and dropped it, shuddering and faint. “Their blood is on their own hands, not on ours,” I said. “Why did they not pass in peace?” “Yes, why did they not?” and she stared down at them. “I was here, alone, the others had gone to wash at the river, when they came by. He saw me, and--oh, infamous! The world is well rid of him!” I saw the other women coming towards us under the trees, and then of a sudden I knew our danger. “We cannot stay here,” I cried. “They will be back again. The one who fled will bring them, hot for vengeance. We must go!” The women looked down the road, white-faced. “Not you others, perhaps,” I said. “You were not here--they will not seek for you. But we--I and my sister--must go.” “Yes--but whither?” asked my aunt. Whither? I did not know. I did not care. Here there was only death. It was my sister who proved the wisest--then as always. “I will go to Aignan,” she said, with a calmness that astonished me. “The good sisters will protect me and give me sanctuary. You, dear Pierre, must go farther--to some great city, where you can lose yourself for a time.” My blood was tingling. I knew whither I would go. “To Paris!” I cried. “To Paris!” My mother uttered a little cry of horror. “Paris! Oh, no, Pierre! How can you cover those two hundred leagues?” My eyes were on the horse, which stood patiently by its master, waiting for him to rise and mount. “The horse will carry me,” I said. “Yes, and provide me money at my journey’s end.”