“Let them go for the moment,” he said, “should they turn upon you in the garden you were surely a dead man. I will have my servant carry the alarm to the village and call out the town watch.” He sank into the big chair and his friends hastened to support his bleeding arm. “Open the door,” Stephen directed weakly. “Let us see to whom we owe our rescue. I am well-nigh certain that it was not the watch.” It was Doctor Thorndyke who did his bidding, threw open the door and started back in amazement at what he saw. Upon the threshold stood a dainty little maiden with golden hair and neat, white frilled apron. In either hand she held a great, smoking, horse-pistol. “Clotilde!” cried Stephen. “Where, in Heaven’s name, got you such weapons?” “They were Sergeant Branderby’s,” she replied simply. “There seemed naught else to do, so it occurred to me to climb up and see if by chance, they were still loaded. I regret that I broke a window and blew two great holes in the frame.” “You are a brave lass,” exclaimed Doctor Thorndyke. Stephen put out his unwounded arm and drew her to him. “Child, child,” he said, “the pistols might have burst and killed you where you stood!” “That were no matter,” maintained the little girl stoutly, “so only you and the public money were safe. Oh, oh, you are hurt!” “It is nothing,” Stephen assured her, although his face was growing whiter every moment. “Here,” he continued, turning to the others, “is a generous enemy. Although she is a prisoner of war and an exile from her own land, still she risks her life to preserve us from our foes. What say you to such a maid of France?” “I say that her banishment should be at an end,” said the man who stood nearest, “and that she should be given, with all honour, a safe-conduct back to her own country.” Stephen had been fumbling in his pocket and now drew forth a key. “Unlock yonder cupboard, Clotilde,” he said, “and bring me the velvet case that you will find therein.” When the box was set upon the table before him, he opened it and showed the diamond star that, on great occasions, he wore pinned to his coat. He took it up and awkwardly, with his one hand, fastened it to Clotilde’s dress. “The gift of the French King,” he said, “finds its true place over a brave French heart!” The three men bowed to the little girl who stood in awed and bewildered silence. “Clotilde, my child,” went on Stephen, his voice growing suddenly strangely faint, “will you accept what this gentleman offers and can give you, a safe-conduct with Mère Jeanne back to your own country?” “No, no,” she cried, finding her voice at last. “I do not wish to go. I want to stay here, with you, always!” And springing forward she was just in time to fling her supporting arms about him as he fell back, unconscious, in his chair. CHAPTER XII THE BREAKING OF THE STORM