There was nothing for Jack to do at the time. Even if he'd been armed with a musket, one of the archers would've put an arrow through him before he could reload and fire a second ball. But that evening he circled back to an inn that lay several miles south of where he'd seen Monsieur Arlanc, and bided his time in the shadows and the indigo night for a few hours, freezing in clouds of vapor from the nostrils of his angry and uncomfortable horses, until he was certain that the guards would be in bed. Then he rode up to that inn and paid a guard to open the gate for him, and rode, with his little string of horses, into the stable-yard.