“True,” assented my companion gloomily, “yet the Duc de Roquefort is always diligent—else he would not have dared undertake this expedition. He is a great gambler, ready to stake his head on the turn of a card. Some day he will lose, but it seems this time that he must win.”
“Grant that he does reach the château at noon to-day,” I said, “still, even with only thirty men, Madame la Comtesse should be able to hold out against him for some hours—and five or six hours are all that we shall need.”
“True,” and my companion nodded again, “Madame is not the woman to yield the château without a struggle. But what if she be surprised, if she be not expecting an assault, if the gates be open—what then, Monsieur?”
“Then,” I cried boldly, “we will spur after them, even to their castle in the Pyrenees! M. le Comte himself hath said it!”
But Fronsac shook his head.
“You have never visited Marleon, have you, M. de Marsan?” he asked.
“No, Monsieur, I have never been farther south than Lembeye.”
“The castle of M. de Roquefort stands on a height above the town, and is approached only by a steep and narrow road, where two men can scarcely walk abreast. The Duc du Poitiers, with an army of three thousand men, once assaulted it in vain. It will not soon yield to force.”
“If not to force, then to stratagem!” I cried.
“Quite right,” chuckled a low voice behind us. “If not to force, then to stratagem! Well said!”