She places herself at their head. They pass out into the courtyard, and the gates are locked behind them. The sentries fall into their places, and the troopers, six abreast, follow in the wake of their gallant-hearted leader. At a smart trot they pass down the quiet street. In the distance they can hear the roar of the crowd, which is cheering loudly; and they know that Hector D’Estrange is being removed to the prison from which his accusers hope never again to see him issue. They are nearing the crowd now, for it is surging their way. The prison-van is coming along at a smart pace, guarded by its bevy of policemen. It is not a hundred yards from where Flora Desmond, at the head of her hundred and two guards, sits motionless on her horse, for she has called a halt, and is awaiting their coming. Suddenly she stands up in her stirrups and turns to her troopers. At the same moment she draws her sword. “Forward!” she cries, waving it above her head. “Forward, guards of _his_ regiment; rescue him or die!” She has put her horse in motion as she speaks, and with the rush of a whirlwind the White Guards bear down upon the prison-van. The policemen catch sight of them coming, and close around it manfully. The driver whips up the horses, and urges them along at a canter. “Of what avail?” The White Guards are upon them; nothing can withstand the charge. It is the work of a moment. “Sever the traces; cut the horses loose!” shouts Flora Desmond, as she gallops up alongside one of the animals, and, seizing its rein, brings it up on to its haunches, one of the troopers doing likewise by the other. They obey her promptly and rapidly, while the remainder engage the police escort, who resist gallantly. “Of what avail?” The crowd has closed round, willing and eager to assist in the work of rescue. The odds are too great to allow the representatives of law and order to prevail. Twice over Flora Desmond has summoned the policeman inside to unlock the door of the van, but he stands to his guns and refuses. “If you do not,” she cries, “I shall be forced to fire through the lock until I break it, and the bullets may injure you. Come, man, no use resisting now.” But the policeman is staunch in the performance of what he considers his duty, and remains firm in his determination not to betray his trust. “Then throw yourself flat on the ground, my man,” again calls out Flora Desmond, “for I am going to fire.” She pauses for a moment to give him time to obey, then raises a revolver, and fires once, twice, thrice through the lock, which gives way at last. The crowd cheers loudly, the door of the van is flung open, and in a moment Flora Desmond is beside Gloria de Lara. “Thank God!” she exclaims. “Here, come this way. I have a horse all ready for you.”