Mornay took his hand from the knob of the door and turned, while a gleam of satisfaction crossed his features. In that look Mistress Barbara read a sinister intention. She thrust herself before Captain Ferrers. “No! No!” she cried. “You shall not! There shall be no more--no more blood-shedding, Captain Ferrers! Let the man go. Let him go, I tell you! Let him go! As you love me, let him go!” Captain Ferrers disengaged her arms from about his shoulders, while Mornay watched them, half amused, half satirical. “Fear nothing for him, madame,” he interrupted, dryly. “There will be no fight with Capitaine Ferraire. ’Tis only a touch of irritation and will speedily pass when I am gone.” He opened the door and called into the hall, “Vigot!--the coach!” But Captain Ferrers had put Mistress Clerke aside. “You must go!” he cried, furiously, almost jostling the shoulder of the Frenchman. “Tush, monsieur!” said Mornay, sternly. “You forget yourself. I will be at the Fleece Tavern to-night at eleven. If you would see me before I leave England, you will find me there. Madame, your servitor.” In a moment he had closed the door and was walking down the hallway. Monsieur Mornay knew that Ferrers would lose but little time in arousing the servants of Mistress Clerke, and that before he should have gone very far upon his way there would be a hue and cry after him. But he had great confidence in Vigot, and the coachman and outriders were rogues with comfortable consciences, who, if they were well paid, could be depended on. He entered the coach and waved his hand. The coachman snapped his lash over the heads of the leaders. The fire flew from the cobbles as the animals clattered into a stride. The vehicle had not moved its own length before Ferrers and two lackeys came running out of the house, shouting at the top of their bent. But Vigot had his instructions. The lash came down again and the horses broke into a brisk trot. One of the lackeys sprang for the bridle of the nearest outrider, but the horseman gave the man a cut across the face with his whip, and he fell back with a scream of pain. Ferrers was absolutely helpless. There were not half a dozen people in the street. Monsieur Mornay thrust his head out of the window of the coach and took off his hat. “The Fleece Tavern at eleven,” he said.