It was still two to one, and these were heavy odds; but Marcilly was not far, and going like the wind. The two pursuers hung closely behind the fugitive--there was a long, dark thing in the snow, athwart the road, where the third lay, still and motionless. But the two, intent and eager, took no note of Jean, saw nothing of Lanoy and Coqueville and the half-dozen others who spurred behind them. Our man did, however; he bent forward in his saddle, and his good horse seemed to fly. We watched in a breathless silence. And then--it had come and gone in a moment. The fugitive was safe. He had passed Marcilly and was close to the others. But Jean--my breath came thick and fast. Was it to be, after all? The leading horse against Marcilly swerved to one side. Its rider, seeing the succor at hand, turned off to his left and made for the wood; and Lanoy--there was no mistaking the bay horse, and tall, thin figure--cut across country to intercept him. I saw no more of that. All my eyes were for Marcilly and his adversary. There was no better sword than Jean in France. I could have sworn that, until now. But what was this? There was a circle of light as they came together, something flashed downward, and Marcilly was disarmed. And then--it was all in a hand-turn, remember--a strange thing happened. Marcilly’s adversary raised his sword to the salute and, leaving him harmless, rode straight on toward Coqueville and his men. He broke right through them, and, pulling across the road, galloped off at a break-neck pace toward Tours. There was no attempt to follow. They all gathered in a group round some one who had fallen. Once the man faced half round, and shook his clenched fist behind him, and then there was the light of his red plume, and we lost him to view in the thickets and low forest that fringed the river--and he escaped. But our man was safe, no thanks to me. He reined up at the bridge, crossing it slowly, and then we saw him rock in his saddle. “He is hurt!” exclaimed the Princess: but I heard no more. I was down the long stairway three steps at a time, and, hurrying across the flagged court, was just able to meet the stranger, for, as I reached the castle gates, he entered, his horse stopping under the stone archway of its own accord, with head held down and heaving flanks, while the rider hung low over the saddle. Seeing me approach, however, he steadied himself with an effort, answering my “Well ridden and bravely done, monsieur,” with a white smile and a hoarse, “’Twas between the skin and the flesh.” As he spoke I thought he would have fallen, and rushed to his side.