“Halt! and declare yourselves!” cried a hoarse voice speaking in the French tongue.

“Now for it, Tom,” said Lord Claud quietly, speaking between his shut teeth.  “Remember what I have told you.  Be wary, be ready.  We shall get through all right.  There are but two or three score, and none of them mounted.”

The travellers were passing now through the narrow territory of the Margrave of Baden, with the Rhine upon their right, the only protection from the frontier of France with all its hostile hosts.

The slow and inactive policy of the Margrave of Baden naturally encouraged the enemy to send small parties of soldiers across to harry his country; and already Tom and his master had had to dodge and hide, or go out of their way, to avoid meeting with these bands of inimical marauders.  They were not the class of opponents whom Lord Claud most dreaded, still they might well fall upon and make prisoner the two English travellers; and if despatches were found upon the person of either, they would almost certainly be shot as spies.  Indeed, so bitter was the feeling on the part of the French after their defeat at Blenheim, that any travellers belonging to the hated English nation went in danger of their lives.

For some time now Tom had been wearing the garb of a serving man.  His peruke had disappeared, and he wore a little dark wig that looked like his natural hair.  It excited less comment for master and servant to travel from town to town together than for two English gentlemen to be riding unattended through such a disturbed country; and as they pursued their way, Lord Claud would give minute and precise directions to Tom how to act in the event of their falling in with one of these scouting or marauding parties, showing such a wonderful knowledge of the tactics of forest warfare that Tom was often astonished at him, and would have liked to ask where he had obtained his experience.

And now, for the first time, Tom was face to face with a real foe ­no mere antagonist of the hour, with whom he had exchanged some angry word, and was ready to follow it up with blows, but with armed foes of a hostile race, whose blood was stirred by the hatred bred of long-continued warfare, and who would think as little of taking the lives of two Englishmen as Tom would of shooting a fat buck in his native woodlands.

Again came the word of command in the hoarse voice.

“Halt! and declare yourselves, or ­”

But the threat remained unspoken, for Lord Claud had drawn rein, and was looking at the speaker with eyes of mild inquiry.

“What is your will, monsieur?” he asked, in his easy and excellent French.

At this seeming show of submission the face of the officer relaxed, and the men in his company lowered their carbines and stood more at ease pending the result of the dialogue.

“Monsieur is not a Frenchman?” questioned the officer, with a look from one face to the other.

Tom sat gazing before him with a stolid expression of countenance, which greatly belied the tingling which he felt through every vein in his body.  It seemed as though this tingling sensation was in some way communicated to the mare he rode, for she began fidgeting in a fashion which plainly told Tom that she was ready to do her part when the tussle should come.

“How know you that, sir?” asked Lord Claud with a smile.  “If you can tell me my nationality I shall be grateful, for I am ignorant upon the point myself.”

The man’s face clouded a little; he felt a certain suspicion of the handsome stranger, and yet he must not do despite to one of His Majesty’s subjects, and Lord Claud had the air of a man of no mean status.

“Your servant is English,” he said with a touch of sullenness, “and I take it your horses are, too.  The army of His Majesty of France is badly in need of strong horses.  If you are good subjects of his you will be willing to part with them.  My horse was killed but a little way back; that one of yours would suit me right well,” and he made a step forward as though to lay a hand on Lucifer’s rein.

“Now, Tom, my boy!” said Lord Claud in a clear, low tone.

In a moment he had whipped out his pistols and fired straight at the officer, who fell face downwards almost without a groan.  Tom had meanwhile marked his man ­the foremost in the rank behind; and he rolled over like a log.

With a yell of rage and amaze the men were upon them; but Lucifer and Nell Gwynne had already reared almost upright, and now were fighting so wildly with their iron-shod hoofs that in fear and dismay the assailants fell back, whilst a second report from each pistol dropped another man dead upon the field.

“Forward! before they can take aim!” cried Lord Claud in a voice of thunder; and the horses obeyed the word without any touch of spur from their riders.

They bounded forward with an impetus which must have unseated any but an experienced horseman, and then laying themselves along the ground, they fled onwards at a gallop which astonished even Tom by its wild velocity.

A shower of bullets fell round them, but none touched either steeds or riders; the yells of the infuriated soldiers died away on their ears; the horses sped on and on as though they had wings to their feet, and only after some few miles had been traversed did the riders draw rein.

“That is always the best plan of action,” said Lord Claud, as though such an occurrence as this was a matter of everyday experience with him.  “Always appear ready to pause and parley.  It invariably disarms suspicion.  At the first every pistol or musket is levelled at your head; but if you stop to talk, these are lowered.  Then, when you have put the enemy a little off guard, make a dash for it; take them by surprise, drop a few, and confuse the rest, and you almost invariably escape with a sound skin.”

Then Lord Claud coolly proceeded to wipe and recharge his pistols, as though the escape of half an hour back had been a mere detail hardly worth discussion.

But Tom knew well that both his master and the horses they rode must have been through many such perils before this, or they could never (at any rate the horses) have shown such aptitude in playing their parts.  He had felt that the mare he rode was prepared to fight furiously with hoofs and teeth; and, as it was, she had struck down two men who had been preparing to spring at her.

“Ah, my lady had always a temper of her own,” replied Lord Claud with a smile, as Tom said something of this.  “Yes; I have taken some pains with my horses to teach them to help in a fight.  Travelling even in one’s own land is none too safe, as you found to your cost, honest Tom.  Nell Gwynne comes of a fighting stock, and showed an early aptitude for the fray.  Trust to her, Tom, if ever you are hard pressed; she will bring you safely through, if it can be achieved at any price.”

And, indeed, as the travellers pursued their long ride through a disturbed and often half-hostile country, they had frequently to depend as much upon the fleetness, fidelity, and strength of their horses as upon the strength of their own right arms.

Well did Tom now understand why Lord Claud had made such a point of having their own horses with them.  Had they been jogging along upon some beast hired or purchased in the country, they would never have got through the divers perils of the way.

Once Tom was aroused from slumber in a little, ill-smelling inn by the sound of kicking and stamping proceeding from the stable; and when he had aroused his companion, and they had hastily dressed themselves and descended, it was to find that a desperate fight was going on between the two horses and a handful of French soldiers, who had followed after the fine animals, and were seeking to steal them whilst the travellers slept.

They had paid dearly for their temerity, however, for Nell Gwynne was stamping the life out of one wretched fellow; whilst Lucifer had broken the leg of a second, and had pinned his companion by the arm, so that he was yelling aloud in his agony.

Lord Claud sprang in, and at the sound of his voice the horse loosened his grip, and the man reeled hack against the wall, white and bleeding, and cursing beneath his breath.  Tom was too late to save the life of the victim of the mare’s anger, but he was in time to strike up the pistol which another of the soldiers had pointed at her, in the trembling hope of saving his comrade.

“If you fire you will drive her to madness, and she will kill every man of you,” said Lord Claud coolly.  “She has a devil in her, and is bullet proof; you had better leave meddling with both the beasts.”

The men crossed themselves in pious horror, and were glad enough to back out of the place, carrying their dead and maimed companions with them.  Tom and Lord Claud did not linger longer than the time needful for saddling the horses.  They knew that the people of the inn must be in collusion with the soldiers, and the sooner they quitted the place the better.

They had long since left behind them the level plains, and were now in a country that became increasingly mountainous and difficult.  After the long, flat plains of Holland, Tom had thought the Baden territory sufficiently mountainous; but now he was to make acquaintance with the snow-topped peaks and ranges of Switzerland, and his eyes dilated with awe and wonder when first he beheld the dazzling white peaks standing out clear against a sunny sky.

He was not a youth of much imagination or poetry, but he did feel a strange thrilling of the pulses as he looked upon this wonderful sight.

But Lord Claud’s face was cool and impassive as usual, and his remark was: 

“Very fine to look at, good Tom, but ugly customers to tackle.  A snowstorm up amongst those mountain peaks may well be the death of either or both of us, and the snow will be our winding sheet.”

“Have we to cross those snows, my lord? to scale those lofty peaks?”

“We shall have plenty of snow, Tom, without scaling the peaks.  At this season the passes will be deep in snow.  We shall have to trust to a guide to take us safely over; and the very guide may be a spy and a traitor himself.”

“But, my lord, I thought you knew the way?  I thought you had crossed the pass once?”

“So I have, Tom; but these snow fields are treacherous places, and the track shifts and changes with every winter’s snow.  You will see, when you get amongst them, what a savage scene they present.  In summer it is none so bad; but we are yet in the grip of winter, and though the foothold is harder and better on the ice slopes, the cold is keen and cruel, and the snowfalls frequent and dangerous.”

“And the horses, my lord?”

“Those we must needs leave behind us for a while, Tom.  I do not say that we could not get them over, for, methinks, Hannibal must needs have brought his horsemen across in days of yore, and where any other horse has been, there could Lucifer and Nell Gwynne travel.  But I fear the poor beasts would suffer sorely; and I misdoubt me if they would not be more care than use to us.  They have done their work gallantly, so far; and they will take us back as gallantly, I doubt not, when our task is done.  Meantime, I know a pleasant and sheltered valley, where dwell some honest folk with whom I tarried in bygone days, to heal me of a fever I had caught in the hot Italian plains.  There we will leave them; and there, Tom, if we lose sight of each other, will we meet when our appointed tasks be done.

“There are two places where we may find a safe asylum in this wild land.  One is the valley to which we are now bending our steps, which nestles not far from the foot of the great mountain men call the St. Bernard; the other is at the hospice upon the Great St. Bernard itself, where is a colony of devout and kindly monks, who give their succour to travellers of every nationality and creed, and where a safe shelter may always be found.  Moreover, the monks have a certain intercourse with the inhabitants of the valleys round and about, and we could thus have news of each other were one of us there and the other here below.

“But we will not part company save for urgent need; yet ’tis well always to be prepared.”

Travelling was becoming increasingly difficult and trying as they mounted into higher regions, and the roads became mere bridle paths, often encumbered with snow drifts, and difficult to traverse.

Fortunately it was fine overhead, and the season was a favourable one.  The sun had already attained some height in the sky, and could shine with power at midday, for February was well advanced by this time.  But the cold at nights was intense, and the state of the roads often made travelling difficult for the horses.  The mountain torrents were swelled to brawling rivers, and the ordinary bridges broken down, so that the travellers had much ado to get across them.

It seemed a savage country to Tom, although the excitement and peril made travelling a delight.  Moreover, the people were kind and friendly, although they spoke such a barbarous patois that it was difficult to hold communication with them.

At last they reached the sheltered little valley of which Tom had heard, and here they found friends of a kind; for at the little inn Lord Claud was remembered and hailed with joy.  He had plainly won the affections of the simple folks whilst lying there sick, and they were ready and willing to give the travellers of their best, and furnish them with guides for the passage of the mountain range, which seemed now to tower above their heads into the clouds.

Travellers and horses were alike pretty well worn out by this time, and the thought of spending a few days in this hospitable valley was grateful even to Tom’s stalwart frame.  As for the horses, they testified their satisfaction in many ways.  They even made friends with the goatherd who was told off to attend to them, and attempted none of their tricks upon him; which was a source of considerable satisfaction to Tom, who had been afraid the people might decline to be left alone with such charges.

After seeing them safely stabled, bedded, and fed, Tom was glad enough of a good meal himself; after which he retired to bed, and slept for hard upon thirty-six hours, as he found to his amaze upon awakening.  And, indeed, it was small wonder that he did so; for he had not been used to such strenuous exercise so constantly continued, nor to the clear, bracing air of the mountains.

He woke as hungry as a hunter; and it was only after he had satisfied the cravings of nature that he had time to observe the thoughtful shadow which had gathered upon the face of his comrade.

“Is aught amiss?” he asked presently, leaning his elbows on the table, and heaving a sigh of satisfaction.

“Well, Tom, that is as you like to think it; but what I feared might be the case has come to pass.  We shall not reach the plains of Italy without being sore beset by danger.”

Tom’s eyes flashed keenly under their dark brows.

“What have you learned, my lord?”

“That the pass is being closely watched, Tom, by spies, or whatever you choose to call them, from the French army.  The Duke of Savoy is, as I have told you before, completely hemmed in by the armies of the great Vendome, one of the ablest generals France possesses.  His capital is in danger, and it is of the first importance that he should receive the despatches and messages with which I am charged by Marlborough, and which will give him heart and courage to prolong the contest till the promised help, which is now on its way, shall reach him.  Doubtless it is equally the policy of the enemy to keep him in ignorance of what they themselves now know or fear, so that he may surrender to the French arms before he hears what is being done for his succour.

“That, in brief, is the situation we have to grapple with.  I suspect that Sir James is one of those who are watching for messengers from England, and that we shall have to measure our wits against his.  Tom, I must get through the pass.  I must carry my despatches into Turin.  I am not one whit afraid of the French lines.  I can disguise myself, and pass through them if needs be without a qualm of fear.  I can speak French against any Frenchman living, for I was cradled in that land.  But the first problem we have to face is this ­how can we cross the pass unseen?  How can we put the spies on a false scent?”

Tom drew his brows together and scratched his head in the effort to think matters out.

“Do they know that strangers are here in this valley?  Are we watched?”

“I suspect so,” answered Lord Claud.  “It is not easy to be certain, because the people here are friendly to us, and distrust the French, who have given them small cause to love them.  But I am convinced that so astute a man as Sir James Montacute would cause a close watch to be kept upon this valley.  Most likely our presence here is known, and we are being watched for.”

“And is there no other way of crossing the mountains into Italy?”

“Yes, there is one other route; for historians disagree as to the one taken by Hannibal, albeit most believe that it was this of the Little St. Bernard.  There is another way, which doubtless could be found; but if we were to strike aside after it, the spies would be upon our heels at once.”

“I was thinking,” said Tom slowly, “that we might perchance part company, one take one route and the other the other, and so arrange matters that the spies should follow hot-foot upon the scent of the wrong man.”

A gleam came into Lord Claud’s eyes.  He spoke very quietly.

“In truth, Tom, some such thought has come into mine own head; but it is not easy to make up one’s mind to act upon it, for I fear it means certain death to the wrong man who must be followed.”

Tom’s face set itself in grim lines.  There was a vein of reckless bravery and hardihood about him which imparted to the situation a species of stern delight, and sent the blood tingling once more through his veins.

“I will take the risk of that,” he said; “I shall take some killing, I think.  And killing is a game that more than one can play at!  If I have to sell my life, I will make it cost the French King dear.”

“Right, Tom; but that will not give back a gallant servant to Her Majesty of England!”

“I am not dead yet,” answered Tom, with a grim laugh.  “Tell me the plan which you have worked out in your head, my lord; for your wits are seven-fold keener than mine.”

Then Lord Claud unfolded the plan which had been working in his busy brain during the day that Tom had been sleeping, after he had heard news which made him sure that his mission was suspected, and that he would be stopped and robbed if possible.

Higher up the mountain side, just where the snow line lay, above which there was everlasting ice and snow, was a little rough hostel, where travellers rested and slept before they tried the pass itself.  An old half-witted man and his goitred wife kept the place, and provided rough food and bedding for travellers, though interesting themselves in no wise with their concerns.  In that rude place several men were now stopping, and had been stopping for some days.

That fact in itself was almost sufficient for Lord Claud; but somebody had found a scrap of torn paper with some French words upon it, and this had made assurance doubly sure.  Moreover, Lord Claud believed it to be the writing of the man he had duelled with beneath Barns Elms.

To this inn (if such it could be called) he and Tom must journey, with a peasant for a guide to take them across the pass.  Upon reaching the place, his idea now was that he should appear sorely smitten by the cold, as some travellers were; so ill and unfit for further journeying, that he should have perforce to send Tom on alone with the guide, whilst he returned to the valley.  All this they should discuss in their room at night, assured that they would be overlooked and overheard; and when quite certain that eyes were watching them, Lord Claud was to unrip his doublet and take thence a packet of papers, sealed with the signet of the Duke of Marlborough, and sew this same packet firmly into Tom’s coat.

In reality this tempting-looking packet with the Duke’s seal contained nothing but a sheet of blank parchment.  The real missive for the Duke Victor Amadeus was written on a thin paper, and was concealed between the soles of Lord Claud’s boots ­though even Tom did not know that.  The packet was arranged as a blind, if need should be; and now it seemed as though the need had come.

Then on the following morning Tom and the guide would start forth across the pass; whilst Lord Claud should creep feebly down to the valley, watched, perhaps, but probably unmolested.  The majority of the men, at any rate, would most certainly follow Tom.

“There are but four,” said Lord Claud; “and if one be Montacute himself, I doubt if he will stir from the inn.  He will try to keep an eye upon both, being a man full of cunning himself.  I reckon that he will send two men after you, Tom, and one after me.  I shall, after a while, pause, lie in wait, and kill that man.  Then I shall flee to the valley, get a guide who can show me the other pass, and make such way from the seat of peril that I shall be well-nigh across the frontier before Sir James knows that one of his quarry has escaped him.

“As for you, my boy, you may like enough escape with a sound skin, unless Montacute himself pursues, making three to one ­for one cannot trust these peasants to show fight.  But be the issue what it may, that is the plan I have thought out which gives the best chance of winning through.  If you escape, flee either back here, or perhaps, better still, to the protection of the monks.  For here these unwarlike peasants could perhaps give you little aid if hard pressed; but the Church will afford you sanctuary, and not even the wrath of Sir James himself will avail to wrest you from the hands of the monks, if you claim their protection.”

“It seems to me,” said Tom, throwing back his head, “that the peril is, after all, not so great ­not so great, indeed, as what we have faced many times before.  Let us carry out the plan, and whether good or evil follow, we shall have done our best ­and no man can do more!”

The two men gripped hands upon it, and the compact was sealed.  Tom rather exulted in the post of peril that was accorded to himself.  Perhaps in days to come the Duke would hear of it, and might reward him by some words of praise or thanks.

That same afternoon Tom felt his veins tingling again as they neared the lone little hut amid the whiteness of the low-lying winter snow.  He was about to launch forth upon the first solitary adventure of his life, and one which might be fraught with dire perils; but his heart quailed not.

Almost at once he was lost in admiration and amaze at the power displayed by Lord Claud in acting a part.  He began to draw his breath with apparent difficulty; his face looked drawn and ghastly; he clung to Tom’s arm as if for support; and it was difficult indeed to believe that he was not feeling really terribly ill.

They reached the hut and knocked.  The door was instantly opened, and Tom was certain he saw a gleam of malicious satisfaction upon the faces of the men, who welcomed them in with a show of rude cordiality.

There were but two rooms that could be called sleeping apartments, they said, and one was already occupied; but they would give up the other to the use of the sick traveller.  Lord Claud was speedily assisted thither, and the fire in the stove replenished.  He lay down upon the bed with a groan, and looked as if nigh to death.  The peasant chattered with the old couple, and it was plain that this sort of seizure was not very uncommon in those altitudes.

The men tried to make Tom understand that his companion should go back to the valley; but that could not be done till the morrow, and presently the pair were left alone in their room.

This room was only separated from the next by some rude split pine trunks.  Tom had seen upon entering that a light had been quickly extinguished, otherwise he would have seen clearly through the chinks who the occupant was.  He knew perfectly that every word they spoke could be overheard, and every action they performed duly watched; and he entered into the game of play acting with a zeal that gave him greater aptitude than he had thought to possess.

He strove to get his master to take the broth that one of the men brought up; he entreated him not to give way; and finally he agreed that it would be impossible for the sick man to attempt further travel, and offered himself to bear the packet of letters into Italy.

Then came the projected piece of play acting ­the ripping up of the doublet, the sewing of the sealed packet into Tom’s clothes, promises, directions, warnings, all given with apparent feeble energy, and received with faithful eagerness.

And all the while Tom was aware that close to them, just behind the thin partition, other eyes were watching, other ears listening to all that passed.  He could even hear the short breathings of repressed excitement, and almost feel the keen gaze which he knew was constantly bent upon him.

When all was done to the satisfaction of the sick man, Tom extinguished the light, and lay down beside him on the rude bed.  After his long sleep of the previous day, he cared little whether he slumbered or not ­indeed, it seemed better that he should keep awake.  His head was full of the adventure which lay before him, and he was almost certain that he heard whispering voices either in the next room or below; by which he guessed that their enemies, having discovered all they wanted to know, were now laying their plans how best they might carry out their own designs.