“Drive so much as a yard,” he threatened “and I'll drive you to the devil.” Then, turning once more to Suzanne: “Never in my life, Citoyenne have I employed force to a woman,” he said. “I trust that you will not put me to the pain of commencing now.” “Stand back, Monsieur,” was her imperious answer. But heedless he advanced, and thrusting his head under the lintel of the carriage door he leaned forward, to seize her. Then, before he could so much as conjecture what she was about, her hand went up grasping a heavy horse-pistol by the barrel, and she brought the butt of it down with a deadly precision between his brows. He reeled backwards, threw up his arms, and measured his length in the thick grey mud of the road. Her eyes had followed him with a look of horror, and until she saw him lying still on his back did she seem to realise what she had done. “My dear, brave girl,” murmured her mother's voice but she never heard it. With a sob she relaxed her grasp of the pistol and let it fall from the carriage. “Shall I drive on, Mademoiselle?” inquired Blaise from the box. But without answering him she had stepped down into the mud, and was standing bare-headed in the rain beside the body of Caron. Silently, she stooped and groped for his heart. It was beating vigorously enough, she thought. She stooped lower and taking him under the arms, she half bore, half dragged him to the side of the road, as if the thin, bare hedge were capable of affording him shelter. There she stood a moment looking down at him. Then with a sob she suddenly stooped, and careless of the eyes observing her, she kissed him full upon the mouth. A second later she fled like a frightened thing back to the carriage, and, closing the door, she called in a strangled voice too drive on. She paid little heed to the praise that was being bestowed upon her by her mother--who had seen nothing of the kiss. But she lay back in her corner of the coach, and now her lashes were wet at the thought of Caron lying out there in the road. Now her cheeks grew red with shame at the thought that she, the nobly-born Mademoiselle de Bellecour, should have allowed even pity to have so far overcome her as to have caused her to touch with her lips the lips of a low-bred revolutionist. CHAPTER XIV. THE COURIER It was well for La Boulaye that he had tethered his horse to a tree before approaching the coach. That solitary beast standing by the roadside in the deepening gloom attracted the attention of his followers, when--a half-hour or so later--they rode that way, making for Liege, as La Boulaye had bidden them.