The Marquise had plenty of courage. Still she was but a woman, and not actually hemmed in a corner; so, when the Musketeers ran in with levelled weapons, she turned and fled; only as far as the terrace steps, however, where she took up her post and watched the sequel with a wild fixed face, white and stony as the balustrades themselves. The servants hovered round, chattering, flinching, and doing nothing. Half-a-dozen blades flashed in Captain George’s eyes; as many points were levelled at his heart. His own men had been bid to take him, and they must obey. He knew well they were some of the best swordsmen in the French army; but his good horse should by this time be waiting in the street beyond, and if he could fight his way to the garden-gate there was yet a chance left. Even in this extremity he was conscious that the light still streamed from Cerise’s window. Catching a couple of thrusts in his cloak, and engaged with a third adversary, he was aware of Bras-de-Fer’s tall figure advancing upon him. For an instant his heart sank, and he felt he was over-matched. But an unexpected auxiliary, who seemed to have risen out of the very ground, stood at his side. With a thrill of triumph he recognised Beaudésir’s voice in his ear. “Courage, my captain!” said the professional coolly, as if giving a lesson. “Carte and counter-carte—carte and counter-carte! Keep the wrist going like a windmill, and we shall fight through them all.” He was yet speaking when Bras-de-Fer went down with an ugly thrust through the lower ribs, exclaiming as he lost his footing— “_Peste!_ Had I known _you_ were in it, I’d have parried _your_ blade with a pistol-shot!” A few flashing passes, a clink of rapiers, an oath or two, a shriek from upstairs, shouts, groans, a scuffling of feet, and George was safe through the garden-door and out in the street. He looked for Beaudésir: the youth had disappeared. He looked for his horse; the good beast was walking quietly off in the custody of two Musketeers. A patrole of the same corps were entering the street from the other end. It seemed hard to be taken here after all. But, once more to-night, Captain George found a friend where he least expected one. A coach was drawn up within six paces. A lackey, with a lighted torch in one hand, held the door open with the other. Old Chateau-Guerrand caught him by the arm. “You are a brave lad,” said he, “and, Regent or _roué_, I am not going to turn my back on my aide-de-camp! I watched you from the roof of my coach over the wall. By the cross of St. Louis, I never saw so good a fight, and I have had fifty years of it, my boy. Here! take my carriage. They dare not stop _that_ at their barriers. Those English horses can go like the wind: bid them carry you where you will.” George pressed his hand and whispered in his ear. “Relays!” exclaimed the Prince-Marshal. “Then you are safe. Shut him in! And you, coachman, be off! Drive as if you had the devil or old Turenne in your rear!”