“Can we reach Vrillac to-night?” Count Hannibal asked curtly.
“By Challans, my lord,” the steward answered, “I think we can. We call it seven hours’ riding from here.”
“And that route is the shortest?”
“In time, M. le Comte, the road being better.”
Count Hannibal bent his brows. “And the other way?” he said.
“Is by Commequiers, my lord. It is shorter in distance.”
“By how much?”
“Two leagues. But there are fordings and a salt marsh; and with Madame and the women—”
“It would be longer?”
The steward hesitated. “I think so,” he said slowly, his eyes wandering to the grey misty landscape, against which the poor hovels of the village stood out naked and comfortless. A low thicket of oaks sheltered the place from south-westerly gales. On the other three sides it lay open.