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232 he did not comprehend. “But if the night be fair he is as like as not to lie in the fields.”

One of the men pointed to the sky. A dark bank of cloud fresh risen from the ocean, and big with tempest, hung low in the west.

“See! God will deliver him into our hands!” he cried.

Tignonville nodded. “If he lie there,” he said, “He will.” And then to one of his followers, as he dismounted, “Do you ride on,” he said, “and stand guard that we be not surprised. And do you, Perrot, tell Monsieur. Perrot here, as God wills it,” he added, with the faint smile which did not escape the minister’s eye, “married his wife from the great inn at La Flèche, and he knows the place.”

“None better,” the man growled. He was a sullen, brooding knave, whose eyes when he looked up surprised by their savage fire.

La Tribe shook his head. “I know it, too,” he said. “’Tis strong as a fortress, with a walled court, and all the windows look inwards. The gates are closed an hour after sunset, no matter who is without. If you think, M. de Tignonville, to take him there”

“Patience, Monsieur, you have not heard me,” Perrot interposed. “I know it after another fashion. Do you remember a rill of water which runs through the great yard and the stables?”

La Tribe nodded.

“Grated with iron at either end and no passage for so much as a dog? You do? Well, Monsieur, I have hunted rats there, and where the water passes under the wall is a culvert, a man’s height in length. In it is a stone, one of those which frame the grating at the entrance, which a strong man can remove—and the man is in!”

“Ay, in! But where?” La Tribe asked, his eyebrows drawn together.