Turning for a second to Peter, he said, "Get back to the corner of the room." Peter had no other course but to obey. Boris next proceeded to deal with the others. "All of you," he said in a tone of easy command, "all of you get back into the corner, except Mademoiselle." He watched the retreat through his mask, and when all had crowded together at the end of the room he gave them further orders. "Let no man move," said he, "if he desires to see another day-break. And if one of you stirs for a quarter of an hour after we leave this room, he will be shot down from yonder window like a dog." "Now, Mademoiselle," he cried, almost gaily, "take the arm of my fascinating friend here. He will escort you out." Natalie did not move. Instead she faced him with flaming eyes, the very picture of defiance, and stood there, looking scornfully at Boris and his men. "Very well," he said. And he motioned to a tall figure a few paces distant. Then a huge red hand seized Natalie roughly by the arm and dragged her to the door. Peter and his cousin, and the others in the corner hesitated, looking one to another; then Alexis, more bold than the rest, jumped forward, crying, "Never, you dirty scoundrel!" And dashed across the floor. Boris let him come on, and it said something for the coolness of the man that he did not even fire, but waited till the lad was upon him. Then he swung round, and catching him back of the ear with the butt of his pistol, sent him sprawling senseless to the floor. After that there was no demonstration of any kind. It was obvious that Boris and his scoundrels had provided against every contingency and had counted on complete success. They backed toward the door, through which Michael, the pseudo-cousin, had dragged his captive, and Boris was the last to leave the hall. As he stood there, he made a little bow of mockery. "Gentlemen," he said, "I have to thank you for your hospitality and for your generosity. With your kind permission I will now withdraw." CHAPTER XXIII Out into the storm Michael thrust the lady with his murderous hands; and at once, with an ease his great strength gave him, he tossed her on his horse, which was tied with others in the court-yard. Then he swung himself into the saddle, and an instant later, when the rest of the pack came tumbling out into the night, they were off. One wanton villain--it was the French gutter-snipe, Virot--paused a moment to ride up to a window of the hall and discharge his revolver through the glass. Fortunately his aim was as evil as his intent. Beyond shattering a priceless vase, the bullet did no damage. The night was black as pitch, and Michael cursed his horse roundly as the willing animal, jumping under the spur, grazed the great gate as he sprang through it. Soon they were all out on the main road, where the thoroughbred that carried a double burden settled down into a long swinging stride that fairly devoured the distance, league after league.