and this man had killed not only their leader but a priest. He
had committed sacrilege! What would they do? I could just, by
stooping forward, command a side view of the gallery, and the
scene passing there was such that I forgot in it our own peril.

For surely in all his reckless life Bezers had never been so
emphatically the man for the situation--had never shown to such
advantage as at this moment when he stood confronting the sea of
faces, the sneer on his lip, a smile in his eyes; and looked down
unblenching, a figure of scorn, on the men who were literally
agape for his life. The calm defiance of his steadfast look
fascinated even me. Wonder and admiration for the time took the
place of dislike. I could scarcely believe that there was not
some atom of good in this man so fearless. And no face but one
no face I think in the world, but one--could have drawn my eyes
from him. But that one face was beside him. I clutched Marie's
arm, and pointed to the bareheaded figure at Bezers' right hand.

It was Louis himself: our Louis de Pavannes, But he was changed
indeed from the gay cavalier I remembered, and whom I had last
seen riding down the street at Caylus, smiling back at us, and
waving his adieux to his mistress! Beside the Vidame he had the
air of being slight, even short. The face which I had known so
bright and winning, was now white and set. His fair, curling
hair--scarce darker than Croisette's--hung dank, bedabbled with
blood which flowed from a wound in his head. His sword was gone;
his dress was torn and disordered and covered with dust. His
lips moved. But he held up his head, he bore himself bravely
with it all; so bravely, that I choked, and my heart seemed
bursting as I looked at him standing there forlorn and now