Reserving his fire until he was among them, he discharged his pistol pointblank at the head of one fellow with deadly effect, and riding down another, wrenched the half-pike from his hand. Then they were utterly panic-stricken and fled right and left, leaving Gervase master of the situation. Meanwhile the young lady had risen to her feet, and was standing looking in wonder at her unexpected deliverer, who had reined up his horse, and was watching the fugitives as if in doubt whether to follow them or to allow them to depart unpursued. Then Gervase turned towards her and raising his hat, was silent for a moment. She was only a girl in years, but of a sweet and stately figure and striking beauty. Her abundant hair loosed from its confinement, streamed in disorder over her shapely shoulders, and fell in thick folds to her waist. Her lips were trembling and her cheeks were blanched and colourless, but her great, dark eyes looked with a steady and courageous glance. There was no sign of fear in the sweet face--only a high, resolute courage. Her scarf had been torn from her shoulders, and showed too much of her white and heaving bosom. Instinctively she put up her hand to cover it. “I fear,” said Gervase, hat in hand, “that I have come too late to save this gallant fellow from these wretched cowards. But I am glad that I was still in time to render you some service. Haply,” he continued, dismounting from his horse, “the wound may not be fatal, and something may still be done.” The girl looked in great surprise at the strange figure before her, and was evidently lost in wonder at hearing her wild-looking and ragged champion deliver himself in such excellent English, and with such a well-bred air. To outward seeming he was as much a cateran as any of the scoundrels he had lately put to flight. “I thank you, sir,” she said simply. “It may be poor Martin is still living.” She knelt down by the side of the fallen man and raised his head upon her knees. But the skene, driven with great force, had passed beneath the breast-bone and had penetrated the heart--the man was dead. A glance was sufficient to show that life was extinct. She allowed the head to remain resting upon her lap for some minutes, gazing at the rugged face of the dead man in silence, and then she looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “I have known him all my life,” she said, “and never was there a braver or a kinder heart. Years ago he saved my father´s life, and now he has died to save mine.” Gervase had knelt down beside her, and had been endeavouring to catch some feeble sign of movement in the pulse. “Yes, he is dead,” he said, “and we can do nothing for him, but it may be the other needs our help.” “My grandfather has not been injured,” she said. “He swooned when they came round the coach, and though they used him roughly, I do not think he hath suffered from aught but fright. Still, he is an old man and very frail, and it may be--”