“No one.”
“The chateau, then, lies some distance from the gates?”
“A league or more, citizen. Close to the gates there are outhouses and stabling, the disused buildings of the home farm, I should say.”
“Good! We are on the right road, that is clear. Keep ahead with your men now, but only some two hundred metres or so. Stay!” he added, as if on second thoughts. “Ride down to the other coach and ask the prisoner if we are on the right track.”
The rider turned his horse sharply round. Marguerite heard-the clang of metal and the sound of retreating hoofs.
A few moments later the man returned.
“Yes, citizen,” he reported, “the prisoner says it is quite right. The Chateau d’Ourde lies a full league from its gates. This is the nearest road to the chapel and the chateau. He says we should reach the former in half an hour. It will be very dark in there,” he added with a significant nod in the direction of the wood.
Chauvelin made no reply, but quietly stepped out of the coach. Marguerite watched him, leaning out of the window, following his small trim figure as he pushed his way past the groups of mounted men, catching at a horse’s bit now and then, or at a bridle, making a way for himself amongst the restless, champing animals, without the slightest hesitation or fear.
Soon his retreating figure lost its sharp outline silhouetted against the evening sky. It was enfolded in the veil of vapour which was blown out of the horses’ nostrils or rising from their damp cruppers; it became more vague, almost ghost-like, through the mist and the fast-gathering gloom.
Presently a group of troopers hid him entirely from her view, but she could hear his thin, smooth voice quite clearly as he called to citizen Heron.