A Highwayman Came Riding by Joan Smith

against her ribs. Her breaths were coming in short pants. As she looked wildly around her for a weapon, she espied the milk on the stove, just about to bubble over. She reached for it and dashed it in his face. Most of it landed on his hat, but some got in his eyes. He let out a yelp and brushed the boiling milk from his face. While he was distracted, she turned to run. The man got hold of the end of her mantle and pulled her back. She stumbled and fell against the edge of the table. He reached out, wearing an ugly leer, pulled her mantle until it came loose, and threw it on the floor.
    “Ye’ll pay for that, minx!” he said in a fierce, growling tone.
    Marianne looked wildly around for a poker or a knife, or some weapon more deadly than the small, empty milk pan she still held in her hand. It didn’t occur to her to scream. She was too frightened. She did hear the welcome rushing down the stairs of a man’s feet, however, and gasped in relief. It would be the clerk, risking his money box a moment to see if she had found what she required. Her assailant didn’t loosen his hold, but he looked alert at the sound of the intruder.
    When he saw who it was, his eyes widened. “Macheath!” he cried.
    Marianne looked and saw the captain, whom she scarcely recognized. He was wearing his black mask and hat and the black jacket he had been wearing the night he robbed the duchess. A pistol in his right hand was aimed at her assailant. She saw his finger twitch with the instinct to fire it.
    “Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t kill him, Captain.”
    Macheath’s eyes never left the assailant. He walked forward, raised his other hand and with its outer edge slashed the man on the side of his neck. The man fell in a heap at his feet. Marianne dropped the pan, which rattled on the brick floor. Macheath put his pistol in the waist of his trousers, delved into the man’s pockets, and withdrew a jingling bag of coins, which he transferred to his own pocket. Then he picked the man up by the scruff of the neck, heaved him out the back door, and locked it, before turning back to Marianne.
    “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.
    “The duchess wanted some milk,” she said, and burst into tears. She was not prone to tears, but in the aftermath of her frightening experience, she couldn’t seem to control them. Her shoulders shook with the deep, wrenching sobs.
    Macheath saw her mantle cast aside on the floor, saw the spilled milk, and had a good idea what had happened. He hardly knew whether he was angrier with Dirty Dick McGinty, the duchess, himself, or Marianne. No, not with Marianne. She looked twelve years old in her long flannelette nightgown, with her hair hanging about her face as she tried to hiccup the tears away.
    He picked up the mantle and put it around her shoulders, then folded her in his arms to soothe her hysteria. He felt her body trembling and held her closer, till his body heat began to ease her shivering. As his fingers moved gently through the silken tousle of her curls, he felt a fierce well of protectiveness rise within him. It was outrageous that this vulnerable girl was sent down here alone in the middle of the night, with the likes of Dirty Dick on the prowl.
    “It’s all right. It’s all right, my dear,” he said, gently stroking her shoulders.
    “He was going to—”
    “I know. I know, Marianne. It’s over now. You shouldn’t have been here alone. Did he hurt you?”
    She lifted her head and gazed at him through tear-dimmed eyes. “You came just in time, Captain.”
    Macheath’s heart swelled at the look on her face, which was close to adoration, and shrank again as the look dwindled to a frown. “I wish you would take that mask off,” she said. He drew it down. “How did you come—why are you here? Have you been out robbing coaches again?”
    “No, I have been with Officer Bruce, looking for myself in all the wrong places. I left him at another inn, where I heard a rumor McGinty