by Clark South
came, andcloser. Now they were almost abreast them....
"Halt!"
A man was running toward them, waving his arms.
Baroc shattered the night with a fearful oath. His long whip crackedover the backs of the double-span of greys ahead. The horses leapedforward.
They were past the inn, driving hellbent through the pitch-blackness ofthe countryside. But behind them was a tumult of shouts, a wilddisorder.
Mark shot a glance through the window. Caught a glimpse of runningfigures.
"Jacques! Are they after us?" There was panic in Elaine's voice.
A clatter of hooves answered her before Mark could open his mouth. Thegirl clung to him, her face chalky with fear.
"If the baron catches me again, Jacques--"
"He won't catch you! I promise it, Elaine! He won't!"
But the words of Adrian Vance leaped into his brain like red-hotbranding irons:
_Elaine Duchard was tortured and murdered by Baron Morriere'sretainers!_
Were these men the ones history had marked to do the awful deed?
The thunder of hooves was almost upon them now. The coach rocked fromside to side. Bounced wildly from one rut to another.
A hoarse bellow from Baroc:
"They're coming, Jacques!"
Then out of the night like the wind itself the riders came. Big men,with fierce eyes and savage, brutal faces. Men cut from the same patternas their master, Baron Morriere.
"Halt!"
"To hell with you!"
A rider surged ahead. He cut in toward the coach's horses.
"Oh, no, you don't!"
* * * * *
Baroc's whip lashed out. Bit into the face of the horseman. Laid theflesh bare from eye to jaw. The man gave a shriek of agony. Pitched fromhis saddle into the road. The coach leaped high as it struck his fallingbody.
But the others closed in. One sprang from his horse to a precariousperch on the mounting-board. His bearded face leered in. A knifeflashed.
_Boom!_
The man fell back, dead before he hit the ground, his throat torn out bythe slug from Mark's horse pistol. The coach was blue with the acridstench of gunpowder smoke.
"Oh, Jacques! Don't let them get me! I love you so, Jacques--no matterwhat happens--"
Mark's arm was tight around Elaine. His face was taut and grim as theybounced onward. He fingered the haft of a broad-bladed knife in hisbelt.
"They won't get you! I promise it--"
Then, suddenly, their enemies were rushing to the attack again. From allsides they came. The point of a sword cut off Baroc's hoarse cry inmid-breath. He pitched from the box.
On through the night plunged the driverless coach, the horses mad withfright. A bridge loomed ahead. They raced for it like creatures fromhell, 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 theflimsy railing. Tottered for a moment above the stream. Plunged backwardinto the water, dragging the horses with it.
Mark felt himself hurled back into one corner. His head smashed hardagainst something. Consciousness waned.
But the rush of water revived him. He lurched half-erect as the riverspilled through the windows in a tidal wave.
Elaine lay unconscious on the floor. He caught up her limp body. Kickedopen one door. Lunged out into the turbulent stream. Drifted with thecurrent, 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. Herbody slack.
All his life those endless hours were a nightmare to the man. Heremembered, vaguely, that they lay hidden under the roots of a willowwhile guardsmen on the bank above them cursed the luck that had let thepair escape. Mark's teeth were chattering and his muscles weak. Elaine'sface, beside him, was growing blue with cold. Yet still she did notrecover consciousness.
Then, at last, the baron's men were clumping off, and Mark was dragginghis 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 knifein his belt.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The stranger was old. The hands he raised in a gesture of peace weretoil-worn.
"Only a poor peasant, friend," he answered. "I welcome you because thebaron's men would not be hunting you were you not his enemies--may hissoul 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 hidethere. I shall bring you food."
All but one wing of the ancient edifice to which the peasant took themwas in ruins, gutted by fire. It stood high on a hill like a blackenedskeleton.
"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 swordswill help, for a poor man's arm can strike as lusty a blow as anylord's."
They laid Elaine on a bed of straw high in the unburned wing. She wasconscious now, but screaming in delirium.
"We've got to get a doctor!" Mark grated tensely. "If she dies--"
The thought brought him up short. History said Elaine Duchard could notdie! No! She must be tormented and murdered! And already the time wasshort, for Professor Duchard had asserted that she was killed two daysafter her first escape. Twelve hours had passed since he and the girlhad clambered into the coach. That left thirty-six--
The old peasant was shaking his head.
"There is no doctor here who can be trusted," he declared. "One and all,they would run to Baron Morriere. The nearest who would help you andkeep his mouth shut is in Paris--"
For ten long seconds Mark struggled with himself.
Elaine was sick. Perhaps dying. Well, why not let her die? Wouldn't itbe better than to see her perhaps back in the hands of Baron Morriere?Was it not to kill her that he, Mark Carter, had come across a hundredfifty years of time? Had he not sworn he would contradict history'sverdict--
"Jacques! Don't let them get me! Save me! Jacques--"
She was screaming in delirium again, her lovely face pale, her goldenhair water-soaked to limp stringiness. Mark knelt beside her. Chafed herwrists. Sponged the fevered brow.
"Jacques! Jacques!"
"History be damned!"
He shouted it aloud. Sprang erect, eyes flashing cold fire.
"I won't let her die now, and I won't let the baron get her! History orno history, she's my Elaine, and I'll save her!"
* * * * *
He whirled on the bewildered peasant.
"How far is it to Paris?"
"About eleven miles."
"Then I'll go there. I'll get a doctor." Even as he spoke, Mark waspulling on his jacket. He strode toward the door, then hesitated andcame back. He gripped the old peasant's shoulders. "Stay with her, oldman, 'till I come back."
"I shall stay."
Mark drew the knife from his belt. Handed it to the other. When hespoke, his voice was but a cracked whisper:
"If _they_ come ... use this. She would rather have it so."
And the answer came back:
"I promise it, friend! They shall not take her alive!"
A wild trip it was, that journey to Paris. A dozen times before he wasbeyond Baron Morriere's domains, Mark was certain he would be trapped.
Then he was in the city and searching out the doctor's office in a vast,ancient rookery on the Left Bank. Outside--although it was onlymid-afternoon--hovering storm clouds transformed day into night, while,at last, he pounded on the door
to which he had been directed.
The door opened. A scowling, youthful man with tousled hair glared outat him, reeling tipsily all the while.
"Wha' y' want?"
"I'm looking for Doctor d'Allempier."
"Then why y' come here? _I_ ain' no doc-tor. Me, I'm painter. GustavJerbette. 'M bes' dam' pain'er--"
Disgust welled within Mark's heart like the thunder that rumbledoverhead. He jerked free of the drunk's pawings.
And then, suddenly, he stopped. Stopped coldly and completely, as if hehad been turned to stone. Deep within him an idea was growing. An ideaso stupendous that it made his brain reel within his skull.
He whirled on the drunk.
"What did you say your name was?"
"'M Gustav Jerbette. 'M pain'er. Bes'