Marguerite, with infinite caution, and literally crawling on her hands and knees, had also turned off to the right: to accomplish this she had to creep through the rough, low shrubs, trying to make as little noise as possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands against the dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without being seen or heard. Fortunately--as is usual in this part of France--the footpath was bordered by a low rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch, filled with coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find shelter;she was quite hidden from view, yet could contrive to get within three yards of where Chauvelin stood, giving orders to his men.
"Now," he was saying in a low and peremptory whisper, "where is the Pere Blanchard's hut?""About eight hundred meters from here, along the footpath,"said the soldier who had lately been directing the party, "and half-way down the cliff.""Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin to descend the cliff, you shall creep down to the hut, as noiselessly as possible, and ascertain if the traitor royalists are there? Do you understand?""I understand, citoyen."
