“It is full of risks, my lord. There is an iron door on every landing, and a sentry posted at each.”
“Go you on ahead then; and if any difficulty is made about our passing, leave it to us to force the way.”
They started at once—Pierre some little distance in front, Dubois next, and Gerard with Gabrielle following. The stairway, narrow and pitch dark, wound down the western tower of the prison fortress; and the light from the lantern which Pierre carried scarcely reached those above.
Not a word further was spoken, and each of the three trod as lightly as the broken uneven stairs would allow.
Soon they saw Pierre’s light stop and heard some one speak to him.
“Who goes? Is that you, Pierre?”
“Who else, Armand?” was the gruff reply. Then a faint chink of something falling on the stone and an exclamation from Pierre. “Diable! I’ve dropped my key. Lend me your eyes, Armand.”
A musket was set down; and a moment later the sound of a heavy blow and a low groan, at which Gabrielle caught her breath and shuddered.
“Quick, my lord,” called Pierre; and running down they found him bending over the unconscious form of the sentry. “There was no other way,” he said. “He would have fired his musket and roused every guard in the Castle had he caught sight of you.”
“’Twas cleverly done,” said Dubois. “Make sure of him;” and he picked up the soldier’s musket, glad to get a weapon so easily.