“Make no noise, monsieur,” I answered, “and I will show you.”
The sentry was opposite us. A step more and he had passed. In that instant I was upon him, my fingers at his throat. Before he could utter a sound, or, indeed, understand what had happened, I had dragged him down into the shadow. Richelieu caught his gun as it fell, and seizing the rope from the parapet, had bound his feet together in a trice.
“Quick, quick!” I whispered. “Perhaps there is another sentry. This one must not be missed.”
I stripped off the fellow’s coat, while Richelieu stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth. Then we tied his hands, gagged him, and rolled him into the shadow. I threw on his coat, donned his hat, picked up his musket, and continued along his beat. A moment later I saw the form of another sentry approaching through the gloom.
“Montjoy,” he cried, as he neared me.
The old battle-cry of France flashed into my mind in an instant. I can call it nothing less than inspiration.
“St. Denis,” I answered.
“All’s well,” said the man, and passed me.
It was a simple thing to reach out and clutch his windpipe. Richelieu heard the struggle and ran to my assistance. I tore our rope into shorter pieces, and in a moment the fellow was secured.
“Are there any others?” asked the duke.