It was then close on eight o'clock: Lyons was distant still some dozen miles or so--and the night by now was darker than pitch. M. le Comte, roused from fitful slumbers and trying to gather his wandering wits, put his head out of the window: "What is it, Pierre?" he called out loudly. "What has happened?" "It's this confounded ditch, M. le Comte," came in a gruff voice from out the darkness. "I didn't know the bridge had entirely broken down. This sacré government will not look after the roads properly." "Are you there, Maurice?" called the Comte. But strangely enough there came no answer to his call. M. de St. Genis must have fallen back some little distance in the rear, else he surely would have heard something of the clatter, the shouts and the swearing which were attending the present unfortunate contretemps. "Maurice! where are you?" called the Comte again. And still no answer. Pierre was continuing his audible mutterings. "Darkness as black as----": then he shouted with a yet more forcible volley of oaths: "Jean! you oaf! get hold of the off mare, can't you? And you, what's your name, you fool? ease the near gelding. Heavens above, what dolts!" "Stop a moment," cried M. le Comte, "wait till the ladies can get out. This pulling and lurching is unbearable." "Ease a moment," commanded Pierre stolidly. "Go to the near door, Jean, and help the master out of the carriage." "Hark! what was that?" It was M. le Comte who spoke. There had been a momentary lull in the creaking and groaning of the wheels, while the two young postillions obeyed the coachman's orders to "ease a moment," and one of them came round to help the ladies and his master out of the lurching vehicle; only the horses' snorting, the champing of their bits and pawing of the hard ground broke the silence of the night. M. le Comte had opened the near door and was half out of the carriage when a sound caught his ear which was in no way connected with the stranded vehicle and its team of snorting horses. Yet the sound came from horses--horses which were on the move not very far away and which even now seemed to be coming nearer. "Who goes there? Maurice, is that you?" called M. le Comte more loudly. "Stand and deliver!" came the peremptory response. "Stand yourself or I fire," retorted the Comte, who was already groping for the pistol which he kept inside the carriage. "You murderous villain!" came with the inevitable string of oaths from Pierre the coachman. "You . . ." The rest of this forceful expletive was broken and muffled. Evidently Pierre had been summarily gagged. There was a short, sharp scuffle somewhere on ahead; cries for help from the two postillions which were equally sharply smothered. The horses began rearing and plunging.