upon the gale. "Were it Lafemas himself," cried De Blenau, "this must not be! _En avant pour la France!_" and dashing his rowels into the horse's side, he galloped headlong down the road, followed by the Woodman, the Page, and the redoubtable Jacques Chatpilleur. Two moments brought them to the scene of the combat, and the moon shining out seemed expressly to light the fray. The one party was evidently to be distinguished by their black habits, the other by their rusty cuirasses and morions. Directly in the way of De Blenau was the Cavalier he had marked as he passed, contending with a man of almost gigantic strength; but, notwithstanding the superior force of the latter, his antagonist still foiled him by his skilful defence, when suddenly one of the robbers on foot attacked the Cavalier also behind. Thus beset, he turned to strike him down, when the tremendous Norman (for it was no other) caught his bridle rein, and urging the horse back, threw him to the ground. The robber on foot shortened the pike he carried to plunge it in his body. But by this time De Blenau's party had come up; and the courageous _aubergiste_ galloping on, bore the point of his long sword in a direct line forward, which catching the pikeman just below the cuirass, spitted him, to use Jacques Chatpilleur's own expression, just like a widgeon. In the mean while, the Norman had turned upon De Blenau, and snapped a pistol at his head, which, however, missed fire. Enraged at his disappointment, he threw the weapon from him, and spurring on his horse, aimed a tremendous blow at the Count, which was instantly parried, and returned by a straightforward lunge that cut him above the eye, and deluged his face in blood. Mad with the pain, and half-blinded with the gore, Marteville attempted once more the feat by which he had overthrown his former antagonist; and, catching De Blenau's rein, urged his horse back with Herculean strength. In vain the Count spurred him forward; he sank upon his haunches, and was floundering in the fall, when De Blenau, finding it inevitable, let go the rein, fixed his knees firm in the saddle, and raising his sword with both hands, discharged it with all his force upon the head of the Norman. The true steel passed clear on, hewed through the iron morion, cleft through hair and skull, and sank deep into his brain. He reeled in the saddle; his hands let go their grasp, and he fell headlong to the ground, while the horse of De Blenau, suddenly released from the pressure, rose up, and plunging forward trod him under its feet. De Blenau lost not his presence of mind for a moment, and while his horse was yet in the spring, he aimed a blow at the Gros St. Nicolas, who had been hurrying to the assistance of his captain, which disabled his shoulder, and threw him from his horse. "_Sauve qui peut!_" cried the Robber, starting up on his feet and running for the wood, "_Sauve qui peut!_ The Captain is dead!"