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  The chaise had stopped just short of a small cross-road, and the cause was instantly apparent. A sinister figure, with a mask over his face, and a voluminous cloak enveloping his frame, was covering the astonished post-boy with a silver-mounted pistol, and threatening, in alarmingly gruff accents, to blow his head off if he moved an eyelid. The apparition was bestriding a good-looking hack, and finding it a little difficult at one and the same time to keep this animal still and the pistol correctly levelled.

  One comprehensive glance told Sir Gareth all he wished to know. His lips twitched, he looked round at Amanda, saying: ‘You little fiend!’ and then opened the door of the chaise, and sprang lightly down on to the road.

  Mr Ross became flustered. Events were not turning out quite as he had expected. He had certainly found an excellent ambush in the little cross-road, and the post-boy had not hesitated to obey at least the first part of his command to stand and deliver. Unfortunately, Prince, also bidden savagely to stand, was not as docile. For one thing, he was unaccustomed to shouts being uttered just above his head, and, for another, he could tell that his master was strangely nervous. He began to fidget, backing, sidling, trying to get his head. The harassed Mr Ross knew that Amanda would find it very hard to mount him, and became more flustered. A quick look showed him that Amanda, instead of nipping out of the chaise by the off-side door, was having difficulty in opening it. And he had not bargained for Sir Gareth’s jumping down in such a reckless fashion. Everything, in fact, was going wrong. He dismounted swiftly, and ordered Sir Gareth to stand where he was, but as he dared not release Prince’s bridle, and had not had the forethought to dismount on the right instead of the left, he found himself in a most awkward fix, trying to keep Sir Gareth covered by the pistol gripped in his right hand while his left was being dragged across his chest by Prince’s efforts to back away.

  ‘Don’t brandish that pistol about, you young fool!’ Sir Gareth said.

  ‘Put up your hands!’ retorted Hildebrand. ‘If you move another step I shall fire!’

  ‘Nonsense! Come, now, enough of this folly! Give me the pistol at once!’

  Hildebrand, seeing Sir Gareth advancing in the coolest fashion, took an involuntary step backwards. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the post-boy had slid out of his saddle, and was preparing to attack him from the rear; he tried to shift his position so that he could keep both men covered; Prince, now thoroughly alarmed, cannoned into him; and the unexpected jolt caused his finger to tighten round the trigger of his pistol. There was a loud report; Amanda screamed; the post-boy made a dive for his startled horses’ heads; Prince reared up, snorting with fright; and Sir Gareth reeled back against the wheel of the chaise, a hand clapped to his left shoulder.

  ‘How could you? Oh, how could you?’ Amanda cried, almost tumbling out of the chaise. ‘You promised me you would not! Now see what you’ve done! Are you badly hurt, sir? Oh, I am so very sorry!’

  Sir Gareth could not see her very clearly. The world was spinning before his eyes, and his limbs were turning to water. His senses were slipping away too, but he knew what had happened, and he managed, before he lost consciousness, to speak one word: ‘Accident…!’

  Amanda was on her knees beside him. He had fallen on his left side, and she had seen that his hand had been pressed to that shoulder, and, exerting all her strength, she managed to pull him over on to his back. She then saw the charred rent in his coat, and, far more terrifying, the ominous stain that was rapidly spreading. She tried to pull the coat away from that shoulder, but Sir Gareth’s coats were all too well cut. She cried out: ‘Help me, one of you! Help me!’ and began with feverish haste to rip off Sir Gareth’s neckcloth. The post-boy hesitated. His horses, no fiery steeds, had quietened, but his eyes were fixed wrathfully on the supposed highwayman, and he seemed more than half inclined to go to him rather than to Amanda. She looked round, while her hands folded and refolded Sir Gareth’s neckcloth into a pad, and said furiously: ‘Help me, I said!’

  ‘Yes, miss, but – is he to be let make off?’ the post-boy said, taking a reluctant step towards her, but keeping his glowering eyes on Hildebrand.

  ‘No, no!’ Hildebrand uttered hoarsely. ‘I won’t – I wouldn’t – !’

  ‘Never mind, never mind, come here!’ Amanda commanded, thrusting her hand, with the pad held in it, inside Sir Gareth’s coat.

  The post-boy went to her, but when he saw Sir Gareth’s pallor, and the blood-soaked coat, he thought he was dead, and muttered involuntarily: ‘Gawd, he’s snuffed it!’

  ‘Lift him!’ Amanda said, her teeth clenched to control their chattering. ‘Lift him, and get his coat off! I’ll help you as much as I am able, but I must keep my hand pressed to the wound!’

  ‘It ain’t no manner of use, miss!’

  ‘Do as I bid you!’ she said angrily. ‘He’s not dead! He is bleeding dreadfully, and I know he would not if he were dead! Oh, hurry!’

  He cast her a look of compassion, but he obeyed her, raising Sir Gareth in his arms, and contriving, with a little assistance from her, to strip the coat off. She did her best to keep her determined little hand pressed hard over the wound, but the bright red blood welled up, dyeing her fingers scarlet, and dripping on to her light muslin skirt. Mr Ross, his horse at last under his control, turned to see what aid he could render, and beheld this horrid sight. With a shaking hand, he stripped off his improvised mask, and flung it down. Had either Amanda or the post-boy had leisure to look at him, they would have seen that his face was almost as white as his victim’s. His lips parted stickily, he swallowed convulsively, took one wavering step forward, and sank without a sound on to the dusty road.

  The post-boy glanced up quickly, and his jaw dropped. ‘Well, I’ll be gormed!’ he ejaculated. ‘Lord love me, if he ain’t gone off in a swound! A fine rank-rider he is!’

  ‘Take his neckcloth off!’ Amanda said.‘Quick!’

  The post-boy snorted. ‘Let him lay!’

  ‘Yes, yes, but bring me his neckcloth! This is not enough! Oh, hurry, hurry!’

  He still thought that all her labour would be in vain, but he did as she bade him, only pausing beside Hildebrand’s inanimate form for long enough to wrench the second pistol out of the saddle-holster, and to thrust it into the bosom of his own tightly fitting jacket. Prince started uneasily, and flung up his head, but the placidity of the post-horses seemed to reassure him, and he remained standing by his master’s body.

  Amanda had succeeded in reducing the flow of blood, but it was still welling up under the soaked pad. Panic gripped her. The post-boy was obedient, but slow to understand her orders, and he appeared to be incapable of acting on his own initiative; Hildebrand, who should have rushed to her aid, had fainted instead, and was only just beginning to show signs of recovery. Furious with them both, frightened out of her wits, she wanted more than anything to scream. Pride and obstinacy came to her rescue: she was the daughter of a soldier, and she meant to become the wife of a soldier; and own herself beaten she would not. She overcame her rising hysteria after a struggle that made her feel weak and rather sick, and forced her shocked mind to concentrate. Sir Gareth had been hit in the hollow of his shoulder, and a much larger pad than one made by folding a neckcloth must be bound tightly in place before she dared relax the pressure of her desperate little hands. She looked round helplessly, unable for a moment to think of anything; then she remembered that Sir Gareth’s portmanteaux were strapped on the back of the chaise, and she ordered the post-boy to unstrap them. ‘Shirts! Yes, shirts! There must be shirts! And more neckcloths to tie it in place – get them!’

  The post-boy unstrapped the portmanteaux, but hesitated, saying: ‘They’ll be locked, surely!’

  ‘Break the locks, then!’ she said impatiently. ‘Oh, if there were only someone who could help me!’

  By this time, Hildebrand had struggled up. He was sick, and dizz