the old women, you see, we're very short-handed to do it clean."
"I have said more than once, name your own price," answered the Abbé. "I deduct nothing for a friend whom I will myself place by Sir George's side, and who will do the pinioning you speak of more effectually, if with less noise, than a ton of old women. How many hands can you muster?"
"Mounted, of course?" replied the captain. "There's myself, and Blood Humphrey, and Black George. I don't think I can count on any others, but we ought to have one more to do it handsome."
"I will come with you myself," said the Abbé. "I have a horse here in the stable, and better arms than any of you."
The captain stared aghast, but so great was the respect with which Malletort inspired his subordinates, that he never dreamed for an instant of dissuading the Abbé from an adventure which he might have thought completely out of a churchman's line. On the contrary, satisfied that whatever the chief of the plot undertook would be well accomplished, he looked admiringly in his principal's face, and observed—
"We'll stop them at the old thorns, half-way up Borrodaile Rise. The coach will back off the road, and likely enough upset in the soft moor. I'll cover Sir George, and pull the moment he's off his seat to get down. The others will rob the passengers, and—and I suppose there is nothing more to arrange?"
The Abbé, folding up his papers to leave the room, nodded carelessly and replied:—
"We mount in half an hour. Through the heart, I think, Bold. The head is easily missed at a dozen paces from the saddle."
"Through the heart," answered the captain, but Malletort had already quitted the room and closed the door.
"Half an hour," mused Bold, now left to himself in the cold and dimly-lighted apartment. "In half an hour a good deal may be done both in love and war. And Alice promised to be here by now. I thought the gentleman never would go away. What a time they were, to be sure!
