The dog lifted his head, and answered by a joyful bark.  Dagobert had just time to seize the mouth of the animal with his hands.

“He will ruin all!” exclaimed the smith.  “They have, perhaps, heard him.”

“No,” said Dagobert.  “But there is no longer any doubt—­the children are here.”

At this instant, the iron gate, by which the soldier and his son had entered the reserved garden, and which they had left open, fell to with a loud noise.

“They’ve shut us in,” said Agricola, hastily; “and there is no other issue.”

For a moment, the father and son looked in dismay at each other; but Agricola instantly resumed:  “The gate has perhaps shut of itself.  I will make haste to assure myself of this, and to open it again if possible.”

“Go quickly; I will examine the windows.”

Agricola flew towards the gate, whilst Dagobert, gliding along the wall, soon reached the windows on the ground floor.  They were four in number, and two of them were not grated.  He looked up at the first story; it was not very far from the ground, and none of the windows had bars.  It would then be easy for that one of the two sisters, who inhabited this story, once informed of their presence, to let herself down by means of a sheet, as the orphans had already done to escape from the inn of the White Falcon.  But the difficult thing was to know which room she occupied.  Dagobert thought they might learn this from the sister on the ground floor; but then there was another difficulty—­at which of the four windows should they knock?

Agricola returned precipitately.  “It was the wind, no doubt, which shut the gate,” said he.  “I have opened it again, and made it fast with a stone.  But we have no time to lose.”

“And how shall we know the windows of the poor children?” said Dagobert, anxiously.

“That is true,” said Agricola, with uneasiness.  “What is to be done?”

“To call them at hap-hazard,” continued Dagobert, “would be to give the alarm.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Agricola, with increasing anguish.  “To have arrived here, under their windows, and yet not to know!”

“Time presses,” said Dagobert, hastily, interrupting his son; “we must run all risks.”

“But how, father?”

“I will call out loud, ’Rose and Blanche’—­in their state of despair, I am sure they do not sleep.  They will be stirring at my first summons.  By means of a sheet, fastened to the window, she who is on the first story will in five minutes be in our arms.  As for the one on the ground floor—­if her window is not grated, we can have her in a second.  If it is, we shall soon loosen one of the bars.”

“But, father—­this calling out aloud?”

“Will not perhaps be heard.”

“But if it is heard—­all will be lost.”

“Who knows?  Before they have time to call the watch, and open several doors, the children may be delivered.  Once at the entrance of the boulevard, and we shall be safe.”