(for wrath is contagious, and to pent Bodyguards is so solacing) do
likewise give way; give chase, with brandished sabre, and in the air
make horrid circles. So that poor Brunout has nothing for it but
to retreat with accelerated nimbleness, through rank after rank;
Parthian-like, fencing as he flies; above all, shouting lustily, "On
nous laisse assassiner, They are getting us assassinated?"

Shameful! Three against one! Growls come from the Lecointrian ranks;
bellowings,--lastly shots. Savonnieres' arm is raised to strike: the
bullet of a Lecointrian musket shatters it; the brandished sabre jingles
down harmless. Brunout has escaped, this duel well ended: but the wild
howl of war is everywhere beginning to pipe!

The Amazons recoil; Saint-Antoine has its cannon pointed (full of
grapeshot); thrice applies the lit flambeau; which thrice refuses to
catch,--the touchholes are so wetted; and voices cry: "Arretez, il n'est
pas temps encore, Stop, it is not yet time!" (Deux Amis, iii. 192-201.)
Messieurs of the Garde-du-Corps, ye had orders not to fire; nevertheless
two of you limp dismounted, and one war-horse lies slain. Were it not
well to draw back out of shot-range; finally to file off,--into the
interior? If in so filing off, there did a musketoon or two discharge
itself, at these armed shopkeepers, hooting and crowing, could man
wonder? Draggled are your white cockades of an enormous size; would to
Heaven they were got exchanged for tricolor ones! Your buckskins are
wet, your hearts heavy. Go, and return not!

The Bodyguards file off, as we hint; giving and receiving shots; drawing
no life-blood; leaving boundless indignation. Some three times in the
thickening dusk, a glimpse of them is seen, at this or the other Portal:
saluted always with execrations, with the whew of lead. Let but a