His men carried their sabres, still sheathed, in their hands, to prevent the noise which they would have made rattling against their saddles; but still their journey through the country was anything but quiet.

They only rode two abreast, as the roads were too narrow to admit of more.

Westerman himself and one of the guides headed the column, and the young cornet and veteran sergeant closed the rear.

They went at a fast trot, and the noise of their horses' hoofs sounded loudly on the hard parched ground.

In spite of their precautions, their sabres rattled, and the curbs on their bridles jingled; and the absence of all other noises made Westerman fear that their approach must be audible, even through the soundness of a peasant's sleep.
On they rode, and as they drew near to the chateau, Westerman put spurs to his horse, and changed his trot into a gallop; his troop of course followed his example, and as they came to the end of their journey they abandoned all precautions; each man dropped his scabbard to his side, and drew the blade; each man put his hand to his holster, and transferred his pistol to his belt, for he did not know how soon he might have to leave his saddle; each man drew the brazen clasps of his helmet tight beneath his chin, and prepared himself for action.
"These are the Clisson woods," said the guide, almost out of breath with the quickness of his motion.
"How infernally dark they make it," said Westerman, speaking to himself.
"We had light enough till we got here." "And there are the gates," said the guide.