The short halt had given the horses time to recover their wind. They had not travelled far, nor had they far to go. The two sprang to their saddles, and as they rode off into the darkness there was a look on Harry’s face that boded ill for Polignac or any of his party. Never before, even when carried bound on board the _Merry Maid_, even when his own life had been attempted, had he felt the overmastering desire for vengeance that burnt within him now. The sight of his friend and benefactor wounded and helpless had quickened his indignation with Polignac and his crew into a fury of resentment, and at the back of his consciousness there was another and a subtler feeling which he did not pause to analyse. With eyes staring into the distance, ears strained to catch the slightest sound, every sense on the alert, he led the way over the heavy miry road, Sherebiah a short length behind. If anyone could have seen the riders’ faces he would have been struck by the contrast between their expressions. Harry’s was grim and tense with white rage; Sherebiah’s round cheeks wore their settled look of cheerful placidity—the unruffled carelessness of a man of peace. It was a furious gallop, over the two miles from the halted coach to the gates of Lindendaal. Harry’s eager eyes at length caught a twinkle of light ahead to the right of the road. A moment later the faint sound of a shout came down the wind, then the crack of a pistol-shot. Digging his spurs into his steed’s heaving flanks he drew his sword; it was a matter of seconds now. He flew past the ruined barn, standing bare and black on the right; and there, before him on the road, shone a light, from a carriage lamp as he supposed. Now mingled with shouts and oaths he heard the clash of steel; in a moment there loomed up before him at the entrance to the balustraded avenue a dark still mass, and in the yellow glare of the lamp he perceived two men on foot fighting desperately. He was still some yards away when he saw the man farthest from him shorten his sword and run his opponent through the body, then with lightning speed prepare to meet the horseman, whether friend or foe, whose coming the ring of hoofs had announced. As he dashed forward, Harry recognized in the sinister features and the wry mouth the evil face of Polignac. Leaning low over his horse’s neck he made a sweeping blow with his heavy cavalry sabre that would have cut the Frenchman’s spare frame into halves had he not with rare presence of mind sunk on one knee and allowed the blade to swish harmlessly over his head.