“Charge them!” I cried, for they were just out of sword reach.
Our nearest pursuers retreated before us, and in the instant of time that followed we threw ourselves into the saddle. As we dashed out into the open an overhanging branch caught my companion’s hat and tore it from his head, leaving his face fully exposed in the bright moonlight.
“’Tis Richelieu!” cried one of the men. With an oath, the duke snatched a pistol from the holster and fired. The man threw his arms above his head and fell like a log. In a flash we were out of the avenue and in the city.
There was need of haste, for once the regent should learn that Richelieu had been in the garden, he would lose no time in getting to the Bastille to find out the truth. So we put spurs to our horses and dashed on like the wind, raising a veritable cannonade of echoes. In ten minutes we were at the Hotel de Richelieu, and throwing our bridles to a lacquey, rushed up the stairs, tore off our masquerades, and drew on our old suits, and over them the suits of the two sentries.
“One moment,” I said, as Richelieu started out of the room; “we shall need money, monsieur. Have you any?”
“You are right,” cried the duke, and he ran to a secretary, opened it, and filled his pockets with pistoles. “Now we are ready. Come.”
“The cement?” I asked. “Where is it?”
“Here,” and Richelieu handed me a small package from the table. I placed it carefully in a pocket of my own suit.
“All right,” I cried, and we descended the stairs in three bounds. Richelieu led the way along the corridor down which Jacques had taken his prisoner two hours before. He paused before a door and tried to open it. It was locked on the inside.
“Who is there?” cried a voice.