gaped open behind him.




CHAPTER V. ROUGH WOOING.


The young man had caught the delirium that was abroad that night. The
rage of the trapped beast was in his heart, his hand held a sword. To
strike blindly, to strike without question the first who withstood him
was the wild-beast instinct; and if Count Hannibal had not spoken on the
instant, the Marshal's brother had said his last word in the world.

Yet as he stood there, a head above the crowd, he seemed unconscious
alike of Tignonville and the point that all but pricked his breast. Swart
and grim-visaged, his harsh features distorted by the glare which shone
upon him, he looked beyond the Huguenot to the sea of tossing arms and
raging faces that surged about the saddles of the horsemen. It was to
these he spoke.

"Begone, dogs!" he cried, in a voice that startled the nearest, "or I
will whip you away with my stirrup-leathers! Do you hear? Begone! This
house is not for you! Burn, kill, plunder where you will, but go hence!"

"But 'tis on the list!" one of the wretches yelled. "'Tis on the list!"
And he pushed forward until he stood at Tignonville's elbow.

"And has no cross!" shrieked another, thrusting himself forward in his
turn. "See you, let us by, whoever you are! In the King's name, kill!