But Rochefort had reckoned without Monpavon and d’Estouteville. They had raised the hue and cry, the lackeys and soldiers had taken it up. Twenty voices were crying, “Bar the gate!” and as Rochefort approached the great gateway, he saw the Suisses crossing their pikes before the gateway, pike-head across pike-head at a level four feet from the ground. Valmajour checked slightly at the pull of the bridle, rose to the touch of Rochefort’s heel, and passed over the crossed pikes like a bird. A shout rose from the on-lookers as horse and rider disappeared from the zone of torchlight at the gate into the blacknesses beyond, and on the shout and like the materialized fury of it, a horse and rider shot out across the courtyard in pursuit. It was d’Estouteville. That limp and enigmatic personage had, alone, perceived, standing amongst the equipages, the horse of M. de Beautrellis, captain of the Gardes; a groom was holding it for the gallant captain, who had entered the palace on some urgent business. D’Estouteville had seized the horse, mounted, and was now in pursuit. He knew Rochefort perfectly, and that Rochefort, in his present mood, would not be taken without a battle to the death. This, however, did not check him in the least; rather, perhaps, it was the mainspring of his suddenly found energy. The Suisses, recognizing a pursuer, and in a pursuer authority, did not attempt to check him, and next moment he too had passed the zone of torchlight and was swallowed up by the darkness beyond. CHAPTER XII A DUEL OF WITS Clouds were drifting across the moon’s face, casting alternately light and shadow on the country; the people, attracted by the fête at the palace, had long vanished. The road was clear, and Rochefort gave free rein to Valmajour. For two miles or so he kept at full speed; then he reined in, leaped from the saddle, eased the girths a bit, and stood for a moment gazing backwards along the road, and listening and watching to see if he were pursued. As he listened, he heard on the breeze a faint and rhythmical sound; it was the great clock of Versailles striking midnight. It passed, and then in the silence of the night his quick ear caught another sound, also rhythmical, but continuous. It was the sound of a horse at full gallop. He was pursued. Even as he listened and looked, the shadow of a cloud drew off, leaving to view the distant figure of a horseman and his horse, as though it had dropped them on the road. He tightened the girths and remounted, only to discover the tragic fact that Valmajour, the brave Valmajour, was lame. Now Rochefort was a man to whom the riding of a lame horse brought more suffering than to the horse itself. It was clearly impossible to urge Valmajour into any pace, but there was a good horse behind him to be had for the taking. He turned Valmajour’s head and advanced to battle.