Mark's arm was tight around Elaine. His face was taut and grim as they bounced onward. He fingered the haft of a broad-bladed knife in his belt. "They won't get you! I promise it--" Then, suddenly, their enemies were rushing to the attack again. From all sides they came. The point of a sword cut off Baroc's hoarse cry in mid-breath. He pitched from the box. On through the night plunged the driverless coach, the horses mad with fright. A bridge loomed ahead. They raced for it like creatures from hell, flanks lathered, nostrils flaring. Another rider tried to spring to the coach. Mark's knife flashed out. Drove home. Then they were onto the bridge. With a roar the coach jumped sidewise on the boards. Crashed into the flimsy railing. Tottered for a moment above the stream. Plunged backward into the water, dragging the horses with it. Mark felt himself hurled back into one corner. His head smashed hard against something. Consciousness waned. But the rush of water revived him. He lurched half-erect as the river spilled through the windows in a tidal wave. Elaine lay unconscious on the floor. He caught up her limp body. Kicked open one door. Lunged out into the turbulent stream. Drifted with the current, barely keeping their heads above water. From the banks came the shouts of searching men. Onward Mark and Elaine drifted. The girl's eyes still were closed. Her body slack. All his life those endless hours were a nightmare to the man. He remembered, vaguely, that they lay hidden under the roots of a willow while guardsmen on the bank above them cursed the luck that had let the pair escape. Mark's teeth were chattering and his muscles weak. Elaine's face, beside him, was growing blue with cold. Yet still she did not recover consciousness. Then, at last, the baron's men were clumping off, and Mark was dragging his sweetheart out onto the bank. A voice said: "Praise God they did not find you!" * * * * * Mark staggered to face the man who spoke. His hand flashed to the knife in his belt. "Who are you?" he demanded. The stranger was old. The hands he raised in a gesture of peace were toil-worn. "Only a poor peasant, friend," he answered. "I welcome you because the baron's men would not be hunting you were you not his enemies--may his soul rot in hell!" "You will help us?" The old man nodded. "As much as I can. There is an abandoned chateau near here. You can hide there. I shall bring you food." All but one wing of the ancient edifice to which the peasant took them was in ruins, gutted by fire. It stood high on a hill like a blackened skeleton. "Once those who lived here were as cruel and proud as Baron Morriere," commented their guide. "Fire made them our equals." And the part of Mark that was Jacques Rombeau answered: "Fire will make many equals in the years to come, old man. And swords will help, for a poor man's arm can strike as lusty a blow as any lord's."