She belongs to me.

You shall not take her!" He caught hold of the Marquis's bridle with such a strength and angry will that the horse was forced to back before him.
"Insolent clod!" exclaimed Bellecour, with an angry laugh and a sharp, downward blow of the butt of his whip upon the peasant's head.

Charlot's hand grew nerveless and released the bridle as he sank stunned to the ground.

Bellecour touched his horse with the spur and rode over the prostrate fellow with no more concern than had he been a dog's carcase.
"Blaise, see to the girl," he called over his shoulder, adding to his company: "Come, messieurs, we have wasted time enough." Not a hand was raised to stay him, not a word of protest uttered, as the nobles rode by, laughing, and chatting among themselves, with the utmost unconcern of the tragedy that was being enacted.
Like a flock of frightened sheep the peasants stood huddled together and watched them go.

In the same inaction--for all that not a little grief was blent with the terror on their countenances--they stood by and allowed Blaise to lift the half-swooning girl to the withers of his horse.