"What ails them?" he cried, as the maddened animal reared upright, its
iron hoofs striking fire from the slippery pavement.

"They are rearing like thy Bayard!" Count Hannibal answered. "Whip them,
whip them for me! Tavannes! Tavannes!"

"What? This canaille?"

"Ay, that canaille!"

"Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!" the Marshal replied, and
spurred his horse among the rabble, who had fled to the sides of the
street and now strove hard to efface themselves against the walls.
"Begone, dogs; begone!" he cried, still hunting them. And then, "You
would bite, would you?" And snatching another pistol from his boot, he
fired it among them, careless whom he hit. "Ha! ha! That stirs you,
does it!" he continued, as the wretches fled headlong. "Who touches my
brother, touches Tavannes! On! On!"

Suddenly, from a doorway near at hand, a sombre figure darted into the
roadway, caught the Marshal's rein, and for a second checked his course.
The priest--for a priest it was, Father Pezelay, the same who had
addressed the mob--held up a warning hand.

"Halt!" he cried, with burning eyes. "Halt, my lord! It is written,
thou shalt not spare the Canaanitish woman. 'Tis not to spare the King
has given command and a sword, but to kill! 'Tis not to harbour, but to
smite! To smite!"