“At this further outrage, Sir Carayne exploded with rage anew. ‘Villain, wouldst do so?’ Again he drew his sword and—clutching his pants with the other hand—hobbled to the coach. Rascogne’s insolent face appeared above the windowsill. ‘Aha!’ he cried. ‘The gallant knight seeks to throw Rascogne off his stroke! A futile endeavor, clod of a swordsman, I assure you—both my blades are unmatched in their skill!’
“It could not be gainsaid; the coach continued its furious rocking even as the knave effortlessly disarmed Sir Carayne once again, this time carving on the steel of the knight’s blade the words—’This rusted kitchen knife is of the same mettle as its owner’s member.’ Sir Carayne flung himself to the ground, gnawing the earth in bitter humiliation; La Contessa’s cries grew louder from within. ‘I say,’ grumbled Il Conde peevishly, ‘I believe that rascal is seducing my wife.’ His rheumy eyes squinted suspiciously at the coach, whose bounces now took it quite off the ground. Suddenly a great sigh came from within; all motion ceased; then, a moment later, the highwayman’s voice—’Ah, sweet aftermath of love;’ the clink of glasses; murmuring voices; then, La Contessa’s voice—’Perhaps?’ ‘Aha!’—this the villain—’let it not be said that Rascogne de Sevigneois left such a fair lady in distress!’ A moment later the coach was back at its rocking.
“Disgusting!” bellowed the Director. “Praise God Mrs. Lang wasn’t there to witness it! Her pure soul—perhaps she herself!—her alabaster body—ravished—oh God!” His face filled with horror; though it was difficult to discern his features in the tropical nightfall. “Yes, well,” said Barley, “they’re a passionate lot, the Groutch. In any event, this escapade went on for quite some time—there seemed no end to the energy of the twain. Actually, I became quite concerned for the state of the coach, for that dilapidated vehicle was taking a beating which made the rigors of the past days’ journey pale in comparison. At length, however, all was done; the coach remained intact. Stroking his mustachios complacently, the highwayman appeared in the doorway; he sprang to the ground—bounded over to us. ‘And what have you to offer me?’ he purred. From the window of the coach La Contessa’s hand emerged, holding a bejeweled purse. ‘Here, dear robber.’ But the knave would have none of it—’Nay! Nay! Sweet lady, the pleasure of your smile is quite reward enough!’ At this, Sir Carayne could contain himself no longer. Once again he hurled himself upon the dastard, hacking and hewing most vigorously with his sword—but in vain; for the scoundrel, leaping and capering about, voicing scurrilous taunts and gibes, committed the greatest indignities with his rapier upon the person of the knight. Again Sir Carayne flung himself to the ground, resuming his trenchwork.
“Rascogne bounded over to me. Without a word, I handed over my purse. The rascal sprang over to the messenger. ‘Ah, my good messenger—we meet again! Your purse, if you please.’ ‘I never carry one, as you well know,’ responded the gloomy voice. ‘Your satchel, then!’ ‘It is empty, as you well know,’ responded the gloomy voice, showing the bare contents of the case cuffed to his wrist. ‘I have afflicted you so much, then?’ asked the rogue, grinning from ear to ear. ‘For the moment,’ responded the messenger, a bit of heat entering his voice. ‘But soon you will be apprehended by the Consortium Constabulary!’
” ‘Ah, yes,’ jeered Rascogne. ‘The famed and feared Agent Grimstalk! But, tell me, how long have he and his dreaded cohorts been hot on my trail?’ The messenger scowled; said no more.
“Rascogne then leapt to the cleric. ‘And you, sir?’ The parson spread his hands, smiling in the manner of one weary of the world and its wicked ways. ‘Good sir,’ he said, ‘I am, as you can see, a man of the cloth. Therefore have I taken a vow of poverty; my sole earthly wealth, the poor clothes you see on my back. You may, if your faith be little, search my pockets to verify the truth.’ The highwayman snorted. For the first time, his face clouded with anger. ‘Ah, villain, wouldst trifle with me? Deceiver of the poor, meddler with their superstitions, well do I know the wealth you have garnered like the faithful reiver your raiment names you!’ His sword flicked out; sliced the collar from the cleric’s neck—a small torrent of gems spilled out from hidden pouches. ‘Be glad, priestly buzzard, that I dispatch you not to that very place you preach of!’ The cleric quailed, but Rascogne turned away and sprang over to the wizard and his apprentice.