With these words she thrust the scrap of paper into his hands and turning swiftly, started forward as though to escape his further importunities by flight. But Dan was instantly by her side, trying to catch her hand in the darkness.

Again she faced him passionately. "C'est folie," she cried hoarsely, "have I not told you that we are in great danger? Go, go back to the Inn. It is there only that you will be safe.—O, mon Dieu!"

A figure had sprung suddenly from the blackness of the trees. Dan felt a sharp blow on his shoulder, and then he was grappling with a wiry antagonist, striving to keep at safe distance a hand that clutched an open knife. Locked in a close embrace, swaying from side to side of the road, they fought desperately. Dan striving to get at the pistol which he carried, his assailant trying to use his knife.

It seemed as if Dan could no longer hold the man off when two small hands closed over the fist that held the gleaming knife and a clear voice rang out in French. Dan felt his antagonist's grip loosen and he wrenched himself free. Madame de la Fontaine had come to his rescue. "Quick, quick—to the Inn. I am safe. You have but one chance for your life," she cried. Already his assailant had put a boatswain's whistle to his lips and was sounding a shrill blast.

As Dan hesitated, uncertain what to do, he heard a number of men come crashing through the underbrush of the neighbouring field. Again Madame de la Fontaine cried, "Mon Dieu! will you not run?" Then she turned and disappeared in the darkness. Simultaneously came the crack of a pistol shot, and a bullet whizzed by his ear. There was nothing for it but to run; and run he did, shouting at the top of his voice the while to Tom in the Inn. He probably owed his start to the fact that for the moment his attacker, who had been held at bay by Madame de la Fontaine, was uncertain whether to follow her or Dan. That moment's delay saved Dan's life, for though, with a curse, the man started after him now, he had a poor chance of catching him in the darkness. But on he came only a dozen yards or so behind, and after him the thundering steps and harsh cries of those who had responded to the call of the whistle.

At last Dan was at the door of the Inn, beating wildly upon it, and calling, "Open, Tom; quick, for God's sake! It's Dan." As the door was flung back, he sprang in and slammed it shut. Already the attackers were in the courtyard, a volley of shots rang against the stout oak, followed almost at once, by the flinging against it of half-a-dozen men. But the great oaken beam had been slipped into place and held firmly. Dan was none the worse for his experience, save for a graze on the cheek where the knife had glanced, and a slit on his shoulder from a bullet.

"They're here!" he cried. "No time for explanations, Tom. I went out—fool that I was!—was attacked. They're here in force."

By this time Jesse had rushed into the bar, attracted by the firing, and soon Ezra Manners came running down from the floor above. After the first impact against the door those without had withdrawn, evidently taking up a position in the courtyard again, for almost at once there was a fusilade of shots against door and windows, which luckily the heavy oak was proof against.

"They're welcome to keep that up all night," said Tom. "Only a waste of ammunition. How many are there?" He would liked to have asked Dan why he had gone out, but there was no time for discussion.

"I don't know—half-a-dozen at least, I should guess," was Dan's reply. "Bonhomme is at their head, I'm sure. It was he who tackled me in the avenue. They may have the whole crew of the schooner here. That would mean a dozen or more."

"Well," said Tom, "we're in for it now, I guess. We'll have to watch in different parts of the house, for we don't know where they will attack. Unless they are all fools, it won't be here."

"You're right. I'll stay and look out for the south wing. You go to the north wing, Tom; Jesse to the kitchen, and Ezra to the end of the south passage. That'll cover the house as well as we can cover it. They'll try to force an entrance somewheres. Have you all got guns? Good. Leave the doors open so that we can hear each other call."

Evidently the attacking party had concluded that they were wasting their lead and their time in shooting at doors and window-shutters, for as Tom had said, all was now quiet outside. Fifteen minutes, half-an-hour passed, and nothing occurred to alarm or to relieve the tension on the anxious watchers within. At length Dan stole upstairs to reconnoitre.

It was fortunate that he chose the precise moment he did, for as his head emerged above the last stair, he saw that the great shutters at the end of the south corridor were open, and a man stood before the window, evidently on the top rung of a ladder, trying the sash. It was locked to be sure, but at the instant Dan saw him, he raised his fist and smashed it. He was about to leap through the opening, fringed though it was with jagged glass, when Dan aimed his pistol carefully, and fired. There was a cry, and the form at the window fell crashing to the ground below. Dan rushed to the casement, and could hear in the court beneath him the curses and exclamations of the surprised assailants. Quickly he thrust the end of the ladder from the wall, then seizing a fresh pistol from his belt, fired at random into the darkness below. Another cry of pain attested to the fact that his chance shot had taken effect. By this time Tom had rushed to his assistance, and together they barred the window again.

Dan gave a brief account of the incident. "But, for heaven's sake, Tom," he concluded, "get back to the north wing. We are in danger there every moment. I'll watch out here."

As Tom returned to his post in the cold corridor of the north wing, he heard heavy crashes, as of a battering-ram, against the great door that opened into the gallery. A shrill whistle brought Ezra Manners to his assistance. "Watch here!" he commanded. "If the door crashes in, shoot, and shoot to kill; then run into the bar and barricade the door between. I've a plan."

He himself ran into the bar, blew out the candles, and risking perhaps too much on the chance of success, cautiously opened the front door. He could scarcely make out the group at the farther end of the gallery, as he stepped out; but he could hear the resounding crashes against the door into the north hall, each one of which seemed to be the last that even that massive frame could hold out against. Leveling his pistol at the group; he took aim, and fired; snatched another from his pocket, and fired a second time. Again, by good luck, the defender's shots had told. There was a thud on the gallery floor, and the besiegers scurried to cover beyond the courtyard fence. Tom dashed safely back into the house, and slipped the great beam into place.

Upstairs Dan's attention had been attracted by the commotion in front of the inn. He opened a window on to the roof of the gallery, climbed out, and crawled along on his belly till his head just abutted over the eaves. For a few moments, after the firing, he could hear the attackers moving about behind the fence across the courtyard. At length, a couple of them stole across the court and up on to the gallery beneath him. In a moment they returned carrying the dead or wounded comrade; then all of them seemed to go off together up the dark avenue of maples. He waited till they could be heard no more, then crept back into the house and ran down to tell Dan of their temporary withdrawal. For an hour or more the four defenders of the Inn kept themselves occupied parading the corridors and rooms, on the watch for a fresh attack. But nothing happened. They felt no security, however, and would feel none till daylight.

In the silent watching of that night Dan had ample opportunity to reflect upon his extraordinary interview with Madame de la Fontaine. He loved her. Good heavens how he loved her, but—had she been sincere in her refusal at the last to keep the scrap of paper for the possession of which she had so desperately intrigued? Had she decoyed him to the rendezvous in the dark but to betray him to the bandits with whom she was in league? At first it would seem so. And yet the paper was in his possession; and, she it was who had rescued him from the assassin's knife. Where was she now? What had become of her? What was to be the end of this mad night's work? That she was the woman who had accompanied General Pointelle—or the MarÉchal de Boisdhyver—somehow did not surprise him. And for the time the full import of what that implied did not dawn upon him. But what mattered anything now that he loved her?

He determined at last to reconnoitre again from the roof of the gallery. It still lay in shadow, but it would not be long before the moon, now rising over the eastern hills beyond the Strathsey flooded it with light. In a moment, he had opened the window, was over the sill, and, creeping cautiously along the roof to the ledge, he worked his way toward the great oak at the farther end.

All was still and deserted below as the Inn courtyard would have been in the middle of any winter's night. While he stood peering into the darkness, listening intently, the moon, just showing above the distant tree tops, cast the first rays of its light into the courtyard beneath him. At the instant the figure of a woman stole across the flagged pavement and crept fearfully to the Red Oak. With a strange thrill he recognized Claire de la Fontaine. Reaching the shelter of the great tree, she stooped, gathered a handful of gravel from the road bed, and then cast it boldly at the shutters of the bar, calling softly, "Dan, Dan."

Instantly he replied. "Claire! Is that you? What is it? I am here, above you, on the roof."

"Ah, mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, as she looked up startled, and discerned his form leaning over the eaves, "for the love of heaven, my friend, open to me. I am in danger and I must tell you that which is of great importance to you. Mais vite, mon ami. In ten minutes they will return again."

It did not occur to Dan to doubt her. Careless of the risk, he rushed back to the window, climbed in, and in a few seconds had opened the door to the anxious woman without. She seemed physically exhausted as she stepped into the warm bar. Taking her in his arms, he carried her to a chair, and poured out a glass of wine, which she eagerly drank.

"It matters not what I have been doing," she murmured in reply to his questions, "I have but little time to give you my warning. Ecoute. Bonhomme and his men are gone only to carry back their dead and wounded, and to bring cutlasses, and the two or three sailors who were left on the schooner. I have followed them—God knows how—and heard something of their plans. They will make an attack—now, in a moment—in two different places. But these attacks will be shams,—is not that the word?—they will mean nothing. It is the Oak Parlour that they desire to enter. At the window of that so horrible room Bonhomme will try to make an entrance without alarm while the others hold your attention at the front and back of the Inn. Is it that you understand? It is necessary that you are prepared for these sham attacks, but the great danger is Bonhomme. The window in the Oak Parlour is not strong. They have information—recent information—from the Marquis probably,—that it will not be difficult to break in. One of you must conceal himself in the dark and shoot Bonhomme when he enters; you must shoot and shoot to kill, then we will be safe. I have no fear of Monsieur le Marquis. The others—they are brutes—but they will flee. And they know nothing, they do this for money,—ah, mon Dieu, for money which I have furnished!"

For a moment, torn between his love and his deep distrust of this woman, poor Dan stood uncertainly. Suddenly he knelt at her side and clasped his arms about her. "Claire, you are on our side? You swear it."

"Ah, mon Dieu! is it that I deserve this?" she exclaimed bitterly. "Ah! I tell you truth," she cried. "You must believe me—Listen! Are they come already?"

"No, no, there is nothing. But I trust you, I will go."

Suddenly she sprang to her feet. "Let me go with you. It is terrible to me to enter again that room; but I desire to prove myself of honour. Allous, allous!"

"Tom is there."

"Ah! send him here to the bar. But do you come, mon ami. See, I go with you." She rose and forcing herself to the effort, led the way across the bar and into the corridor of the north wing, as if to show him that in sixteen years she had not forgotten.