Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/537

 Even while he spoke, a horseman, rising, as it seemed, from the earth, dashed out before the leaders, followed by three more, who, in the hurry and confusion of the moment, looked like a dozen at least.

"Stand and deliver!" exclaimed the foremost, in the customary language of "the road"; but, without waiting to see if this formidable command would be obeyed, he pulled his bay mare together, till she stood motionless like a statue, covered the larger of the two figures behind the coachman, as it rose from its seat, and—fired!

Bold's hand and eye had never served him better than in this, his last crime; but he was anticipated, foiled by a quicker eye, a readier hand than his own. With the very flash of the pistol, even ere the smoke that curled above their heads had melted into air, a heavy body, falling across Sir George's knees, knocked him back into his seat, and Florian, shot through the lungs, lay gasping out his life in jets of blood with every breath he drew.

It was instinct, rather than inhumanity, that caused the old Musketeer to take steady aim at the assassin over the very body of his preserver. Ever coolest in extremity of danger, Sir George was, perhaps, surer of his mark than he would have been shooting for a wager in the galleries of Marly or Versailles. Ere a man could have counted ten, his finger pressed the trigger, and Bolt, shot clean through the heart, fell from the saddle in a heap, nor, after one quiver of the muscles, did he ever move again.

The bay mare, snorting wildly, would not leave her master, but snuffed wistfully and tenderly round that tumbled wisp of tawdry clothes, from which a crimson stain was soaking slowly into the snow.

Then Sir George turned to Florian, and rested the dying, drooping form against his own broad breast. Where was the spit of sand, the lonely duel, now?—the pitiless arm, the bloody rapier, and all the hideous vision of revenge? Gone—vanished—as if it had never been; and, in its stead, a tried, beloved comrade, pale, sinking, prostrate, bleeding helplessly to death.

"Courage, Florian!" whispered Sir George, tenderly. "Lean on me while I stanch the blood. You will pull through yet. We will have you back at the Hill in an