Another furlong and they neared the valley, pushing on cautiously under the trees. Bertrand and Guicheaux rode ahead, speaking not a word, but keeping their eyes fixed on the woodways before them. Soon the sky broadened into a pillared arch of gold. The great trees gave back, showing the valley and the aspens glimmering about the tower.
“Yonder are their horses.”
Guicheaux was pointing with his spear, his thin face working with excitement.
“We have them, lording! We have them on the hip!”
Bertrand peered down the valley under his hand. He saw some thirty horses picketed on the edge of the aspen wood. Only two men were guarding them. Where were the rest?
He gave a shout, and drew his sword.
“Listen, they are breaking in!”
From the valley came the confused cries of men hurrying to the assault, and Bertrand could hear the dull crash of blows given upon the gate. A confused shimmer of steel showed under the black bulk of the tower as Hanotin’s men thronged across the causeway.
“On—on!”
Bertrand was already galloping down the slope into the gold mist that drowned the meadows.