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All day the rain had splashed down with an unusual persistence, but now there was a rising wind and a dash of clear sky over to the south which promised fairer weather. I was blithe to see it, for we had our night’s work cut out for us and a driving storm would not add to our comfort.

From my hat, from the elbows of my riding-coat, and from my boot-heels constant rivulets ran; but I took pains to keep the pistols under my doublet dry as toast. At the courtyard of the inn I flung myself from my horse and strode to the taproom where my companions awaited me. In truth they were making the best of their circumstances. A hot water jug steamed in front of the hearth where Creagh lolled in a big armchair. At the table Captain Macdonald was compounding a brew by the aid of lemons, spices, and brandy. They looked the picture of content, and I stood streaming in the doorway a moment to admire the scene.

“What luck, Montagu?” asked Creagh.

“They’re at ‘The Jolly Soldier’ all right en route for Epsom,” I told him. “Arrived a half hour before I left. Hamish Gorm is hanging about there to let us know when they start. Volney has given orders for a fresh relay of horses, so they are to continue their journey to-night.”

“And the lady?”

“The child looks like an angel of grief. She is quite out of hope. Faith, her despair took me by the heart.”

“My certes! I dare swear it,” returned Donald Roy dryly. “And did you make yourself known to her?”

“No, she went straight to her room. Volney has given it out that the lady is his wife and is demented. His man Watkins spreads the report broadcast to forestall any appeal she may make for help. I talked with the valet in the stables. He had much to say about how dearly his master and his mistress loved each other, and what a pity ’twas that the lady has lately fallen out of her mind by reason of illness. ’Twas the one thing that spoilt the life of Mr. Armitage, who fairly dotes on his sweet lady. Lud, yes! And one of her worst delusions is that he is not really her husband and that he wishes to harm her. Oh, they have contrived well their precious story to avoid outside interference.”

I found more than one cause to doubt the fortunate issue of the enterprise upon which we were engaged. Volney might take the other road; or he might postpone his journey on account of the foul weather. Still other contingencies rose to my mind, but Donald Roy and Creagh made light of them.

“Havers! If he is the man you have drawn for me he will never be letting a smirr of rain interfere with his plans; and as for the other road, it will be a river in spate by this time,” the Highlander reassured me.

“Sure, I’ll give you four to one in ponies the thing does not miscarry,” cried Creagh in his rollicking way. “After the King comes home I’ll dance at your wedding, me boy; and here’s to Mrs. Montagu that is to be, bedad!”

My wildest dreams had never carried me so far as this yet, and I flushed to my wig at his words; but the wild Irishman only laughed at my remonstrance.

“Faith man, ’tis you or I! ’Twould never do for three jolly blades like us to steal the lady from her lover and not offer another in exchange. No, no! Castle Creagh is crying for a mistress, and if you don’t spunk up to the lady Tony Creagh will.”

To his humour of daffing I succumbed, and fell into an extraordinary ease with the world. Here I sat in a snug little tavern with the two most taking comrades in the world drinking a hot punch brewed to a nicety, while outside the devil of a storm roared and screamed.

As for my companions, they were old campaigners, not to be ruffled by the slings of envious fortune. Captain Donald Roy was wont to bear with composure good luck and ill, content to sit him down whistling on the sodden heath to eat his mouthful of sour brose with the same good humour he would have displayed at a gathering of his clan gentlemen where the table groaned with usquebaugh, mountain trout, and Highland venison. Creagh’s philosophy too was all for taking what the gods sent and leaving uncrossed bridges till the morrow. Was the weather foul? Sure, the sun would soon shine, and what was a cloak for but to keep out the rain? I never knew him lose his light gay spirits, and I have seen him at many an evil pass.

The clatter of a horse’s hoofs in the courtyard put a period to our festivities. Presently rug-headed Hamish Gorm entered, a splash of mud from brogues to bonnet.

“What news, Hamish? Has Volney started?” I cried.

“She would be leaving directly. Ta Sassenach iss in ta carriage with ta daughter of Macleod, and he will be a fery goot man to stick a dirk in whatefer,” fumed the gillie.

I caught him roughly by the shoulder. “There will be no dirk play this night, Hamish Gorm. Do you hear that? It will be left for your betters to settle with this man, and if you cannot remember that you will just stay here.”

He muttered sullenly that he would remember, but it was a great pity if Hamish Gorm could not avenge the wrongs of the daughter of his chief.

We rode for some miles along a cross country path where the mud was so deep that the horses sank to their fetlocks. The wind had driven away the rain and the night had cleared overhead. There were still scudding clouds scouring across the face of the moon, but the promise was for a clear night. We reached the Surrey road and followed it along the heath till we came to the shadow of three great oaks. Many a Dick Turpin of the road had lurked under the drooping boughs of these same trees and sallied out to the hilltop with his ominous cry of “Stand and deliver!” Many a jolly grazier and fat squire had yielded up his purse at this turn of the road. For a change we meant to rum-pad a baronet, and I flatter myself we made as dashing a trio of cullies as any gentlemen of the heath among them all.

It might have been a half hour after we had taken our stand that the rumbling of a coach came to our ears. The horses were splashing through the mud, plainly making no great speed. Long before we saw the chaise, the cries of the postilions urging on the horses were to be heard. After an interminable period the carriage swung round the turn of the road and began to take the rise. We caught the postilion at disadvantage as he was flogging the weary animals up the brow of the hill. He looked up and caught sight of us.

“Out of the way, fellows,” he cried testily. Next instant he slipped to the ground and disappeared in the darkness, crying “’Ware highwaymen!” In the shine of the coach lamps he had seen Creagh’s mask and pistol. The valet Watkins, sitting on the box, tried to lash up the leaders, but Macdonald blocked the way with his horse, what time the Irishman and I gave our attention to the occupants of the chaise.

At the first cry of the postilion a bewigged powdered head had been thrust from the window and immediately withdrawn. Now I dismounted and went forward to open the door. From the corner of the coach into which Aileen Macleod had withdrawn a pair of bright eager eyes looked into my face, but no Volney was to be seen. The open door opposite explained his disappearance. I raised the mask a moment from my face, and the girl gave a cry of joy.

“Did you think I had deserted you?” I asked.

“Oh, I did not know. I wass thinking that perhaps he had killed you. I will be thanking God that you are alive,” she cried, with a sweet little lift and tremble to her voice that told me tears were near.

A shot rang out, and then another.

“Excuse me for a moment. I had forgot the gentleman,” I said, hastily withdrawing my head.

As I ran round the back of the coach I came plump into Volney. Though dressed to make love and not war, I’ll do him the justice to say that one was as welcome to him as the other. He was shining in silver satin and blue silk and gold lace, but in each hand he carried a great horse pistol, one of which was still smoking at the barrel. The other he pointed at me, but with my sword I thrust up the point and it went off harmlessly in the air. Then I flung him from me and covered him with my barker. Creagh also was there to emphasize the wisdom of discretion. Sir Robert Volney was as daring a man as ever lived, but he was no fool neither. He looked at my weapon shining on him in the moonlight and quietly conceded to himself that the game was against him for the moment. From his fingers he slipped the rings, and the watch from his pocket-coat. To carry out our pretension I took them and filled my pockets with his jewelry.

“A black night, my cullies,” said Volney as easy as you please.

“The colour of your business,” I retorted thoughtlessly.

He started, looking at me very sharp.

“Else you would not be travelling on such a night,” I explained lamely.

“Ah! I think we will not discuss my business. As it happens, the lady has no jewelry with her. If you are quite through with us, my good fellows, we’ll wish you a pleasant evening. Watkins, where’s that d—d postilion?”

“Softly, Sir Robert! The night’s young yet. Will you not spare us fifteen minutes while the horses rest?” proposed Creagh.

“Oh, if you put it that way,” he answered negligently, his agile mind busy with the problem before him. I think he began to put two and two together. My words might have been a chance shot, but when on the heel of them Creagh let slip his name Volney did not need to be told that we were not regular fly-by-nights. His eyes and his ears were intent to pierce our disguises.

“Faith, my bullies, you deserve success if you operate on such nights as this. An honest living were easier come by, but Lard! not so enticing by a deal. Your enterprise is worthy of commendation, and I would wager a pony against a pinch of snuff that some day you’ll be raised to a high position by reason of it. How is it the old catch runs?

“‘And three merry men, and three merry men,

And three merry men are we,

As ever did sing three parts in a string,

All under the gallows tree.’

“If I have to get up in the milkman hours, begad, when that day comes I’ll make it a point to be at Tyburn to see your promotion over the heads of humdrum honest folks,” he drawled, and at the tail of his speech yawned in our faces.

“We’ll send you cards to the entertainment when that happy day arrives,” laughed Creagh, delighted of course at the aplomb of the Macaroni.

Donald Roy came up to ask what should be done with Watkins. It appeared that Volney had mistaken him for one of us and let fly at him. The fellow lay groaning on the ground as if he were on the edge of expiration. I stooped and examined him. ’Twas a mere flesh scratch.

“Nothing the matter but a punctured wing. All he needs is a kerchief round his arm,” I said.

Captain Macdonald looked disgusted and a little relieved.

“’Fore God, he deaved (deafened) me with his yammering till I thought him about to ship for the other world. These Englishers make a geyan work about nothing.”

For the moment remembrance of Volney had slipped from our minds. As I rose to my feet he stepped forward. Out flashed his sword and ripped the mask from my face.

“Egad, I thought so,” he chuckled. “My young friend Montagu repairing his fallen fortunes on the road! Won’t you introduce me to the other gentlemen, or would they rather remain incog? Captain Claude Duval, your most obedient! Sir Dick Turpin, yours to command! Delighted, ’pon my word, to be rum-padded by such distinguished—er—knights of the road.”

“The honour is ours,” answered Creagh gravely, returning his bow, but the Irishman’s devil-may-care eyes were dancing.

“A strange fortuity, in faith, that our paths have crossed so often of late, Montagu. Now I would lay something good that our life lines will not cross more than once more.”

“Why should we meet at all again?” I cried. “Here is a piece of good turf under the moonlight. ’Twere a pity to lose it.”

He appeared to consider. “As you say, the turf is all that is to be desired and the light will suffice. Why not? We get in each other’s way confoundedly, and out of doubt will some day have to settle our little difference. Well then, if ’twere done ’twere well done quickly. Faith, Mr. Montagu, y’are a man after my own heart, and it gives me a vast deal of pleasure to accept your proposal. Consider me your most obedient to command and prodigiously at your service.”

Raffish and flamboyant, he lounged forward to the window of the carriage.

“I beg a thousand pardons, sweet, for leaving you a few minutes alone,” he said with his most silken irony. “I am desolated at the necessity, but this gentleman has a claim that cannot be ignored. Believe me, I shall make the absence very short. Dear my life, every instant that I am from you is snatched from Paradise. Fain would I be with you alway, but stern duty”—the villain stopped to draw a plaintive and theatric sigh—“calls me to attend once for all to a matter of small moment. Anon I shall be with you, life of my life.”

She looked at him as if he were the dirt beneath her feet, and still he smiled his winsome smile, carrying on the mock pretense that she was devoted to him.

“Ah, sweet my heart!” he murmured. “’Twere cheap to die for such a loving look from thee. All Heaven lies in it. ’Tis better far to live for many more of such.”

There was a rush of feet and a flash of steel. Donald Roy leaped forward just in time, and next moment Hamish Gorm lay stretched on the turf, muttering Gaelic oaths and tearing at the sod with his dirk in an impotent rage. Sir Robert looked down at the prostrate man with his inscrutable smile.

“Your friend from the Highlands is in a vast hurry, Montagu. He can’t even wait till you have had your chance to carve me. Well, are you ready to begin the argument?”

“Quite at your command. There is a bit of firm turf beyond the oaks. If you will lead the way I shall be with you anon.”

“Lud! I had forgot. You have your adieux to make to the lady. Pray do not let me hurry you,” he said urbanely, as he picked his way daintily through the mud.

When he had gone I turned to the girl.

“You shall be quit of him,” I told her. “You may rely on my friends if—if the worst happens. They will take you to Montagu Grange, and my brother Charles will push on with you to Scotland. In this country you would not be safe from him while he lives.”

Her face was like the snow.

“Iss there no other way whatever?” she cried. “Must you be fighting with this man for me, and you only a boy? Oh, I could be wishing for my brother Malcolm or some of the good claymores on the braes of Raasay!”

The vanity in me was stung by her words.

“I’m not such a boy neither, and Angelo judged me a good pupil. You might find a worse champion.”

“Oh, it iss the good friend you are to me, and I am loving you for it, but I think of what may happen to you.”

My pulse leaped and my eyes burned, but I answered lightly,

“For a change think of what may happen to him, and maybe to pass the time you might put up a bit prayer for me.”

“Believe me, I will be doing that same,” she cried with shining eyes, and before I divined her intent had stooped to kiss my hand that rested on the coach door.

My heart lilted as I crossed the heath to where the others were waiting for me beyond the dip of the hillock.

“Faith, I began to think you had forgotten me and gone off with the lady yourself,” laughed Volney.

I flung off my cloak and my inner coat, for though the night was chill I knew I should be warm enough when once we got to work. Then, strangely enough, an unaccountable reluctance to engage came over me, and I stood tracing figures on the heath with the point of my small sword.

“Are you ready?” asked the baronet.

I broke out impetuously. “Sir Robert, you have ruined many. Your victims are to be counted by the score. I myself am one. But this girl shall not be added to the list. I have sworn it; so have my friends. There is still time for you to leave unhurt if you desire it, but if we once cross swords one of us must die.”

“And, prithee, Mr. Montagu, why came we here?”

“Yet even now if you will desist——”

His caustic insolent laugh rang out gaily as he mouthed the speech of Tybalt in actor fashion.

“‘What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word,

As I hate hell, all Montagus, and thee;

Have at thee, coward.’”

I drew back from his playful lunge.

“Very well. Have it your own way. But you must have some one to act for you. Perhaps Captain Mac—er—the gentleman on your right—will second you.”

Donald Roy drew himself up haughtily. “Feint a bit of it! I’m on the other side of the dyke. Man, Montagu! I’m wondering at you, and him wronging a Hieland lassie. Gin he waits till I stand back of him he’ll go wantin’, ye may lippen (trust) to that.”

“Then it’ll have to be you, Tony,” I said, turning to Creagh. “Guard, Sir Robert!”

“’Sdeath! You’re getting in a hurry, Mr. Montagu. I see you’re keen after that ‘Hic Jacet’ I promised you. Lard! I vow you shall have it.”

Under the shifting moonlight we fell to work on the dripping heath. We were not unevenly matched considering the time and the circumstances. I had in my favour youth, an active life, and a wrist of steel. At least I was a strong swordsman, even though I could not pretend to anything like the mastery of the weapon which he possessed. To some extent his superior skill was neutralized by the dim light. He had been used to win his fights as much with his head as with his hand, to read his opponent’s intention in advance from the eyes while he concealed his own; but the darkness, combined with my wooden face, made this impossible now. Every turn and trick of the game he knew, but the shifting shine and shadow disconcerted him. More than once I heard him curse softly when at a critical moment the scudding clouds drifted across the moon in time to save me.

He had the better of me throughout, but somehow I blundered through without letting him find the chance for which he looked. I kept my head, and parried by sheer luck his brilliant lunges. I broke ground and won free—if but barely—from his incessant attack. More than once he pricked me. A high thrust which I diverted too late with the parade of tierce drew blood freely. He fleshed me again on the riposte by a one-two feint in tierce and a thrust in carte.

“‘L’art de donner et de ne pas recevoir,’” he quoted, as he parried my counter-thrust with debonair ease.

Try as I would I could not get behind that wonderful guard of his. It was easy, graceful, careless almost, but it was sure. His point was a gleaming flash of light, but it never wavered from my body line.

A darker cloud obscured the moon, and by common consent we rested.

“Three minutes for good-byes,” said Volney, suggestively.

“Oh, my friends need not order the hearse yet—at least for me. Of course, if it would be any convenience——”

He laughed. “Faith, you improve on acquaintance, Mr. Montagu, like good wine or—to stick to the same colour—the taste of the lady’s lips.”

I looked blackly at him. “Do you pretend——?”

“Oh, I pretend nothing. Kiss and never tell, egad! Too bad they’re not for you too, Montagu.”

“I see that Sir Robert Volney has added another accomplishment to his vices.”

“And that is——?”

“He can couple a woman’s name with the hint of a slanderous lie.”

Sir Robert turned to Creagh and waved a hand at me, shaking his head sorrowfully. “The country boor in evidence again. Curious how it will crop out. Ah, Mr. Montagu! The moon shines bright again. Shall we have the pleasure of renewing our little debate?”

I nodded curtly. He stopped a moment to say:

“You have a strong wrist and a prodigious good fence, Mr. Montagu, but if you will pardon a word of criticism I think your guard too high.”

“Y’are not here to instruct me, Sir Robert, but——”

“To kill you. Quite so!” he interrupted jauntily. “Still, a friendly word of caution—and the guard is overhigh! ’Tis the same fault my third had. I ran under it, and——” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Was that the boy you killed for defending his sister?” I asked insolently.

Apparently my hit did not pierce the skin. “No. I’ve forgot the nomination of the gentleman. What matter? He has long been food for worms. Pardon me, I see blood trickling down your sword arm. Allow me to offer my kerchief.”

“Thanks! ’Twill do as it is. Art ready?”

“Lard, yes! And guard lower, an you love me. The high guard is the one fault— Well parried, Montagu!—I find in Angelo’s pupils. Correcting that, you would have made a rare swordsman in time.”

His use of the subjunctive did not escape me. “I’m not dead yet,” I panted.

I parried a feint une-deux, in carte, with the parade in semicircle, and he came over my blade, thrusting low in carte. His laugh rang out clear as a boy’s, and the great eyes of the man blazed with the joy of fight.

“Gad, you’re quick to take my meaning! Ah! You nearly began the long journey that time, my friend.”

He had broken ground apparently in disorder, and by the feel of his sword I made sure he had in mind to parry; but the man was as full of tricks as the French King Louis and with incredible swiftness he sent a straight thrust in high tierce—a thrust which sharply stung my ribs only, since I had flung myself aside in time to save my vitals.

After that came the end. He caught me full and fair in the side of the neck. A moist stifling filled my throat and the turf whirled up to meet the sky. I knew nothing but a mad surge of rage that he had cut me to pieces and I had never touched him once. As I went down I flung myself forward at him wildly. It is to be supposed that he was off guard for the moment, supposing me a man already dead. My blade slipped along his, lurched farther forward, at last struck something soft and ripped down. A hundred crimson points zigzagged before my eyes, and I dropped down into unconsciousness in a heap.