silks and satins, powder and patches, gold lace and red heels, moving
with waving fans, or hand on sword, and laced beaver under elbow,
through the stately figures of the gavotte.

Scared, white-faced lackeys had brought the news, dashing wildly in
upon that courtly assembly. The peasants had risen and were marching
on Bellecour.

Some of his sudden rage the Marquis vented by striking the servants'
spokesman in the face.

"Dare you bring me such a message?" he cried furiously.

"But, my lord, what are we to do?" gasped the frightened lackey.

"Do, fool?" returned Bellecour. "Why, close the gates and bid them
return home as they value their lives. For if they give me trouble
I'll hang a round dozen of them."

Still was there that same big talk of hanging men. Still did it
seem that the Marquis of Bellecour accounted himself the same lord
of life and death that he and his forbears had been for generations.
But there were others who thought differently. The music had ceased
abruptly, and a little knot of gentlemen now gathered about the host,
and urged him to take some measures of precaution. In particular
they desired to ensure the safety of the ladies who were being thrown
into a great state of alarm, so that of some of these were the
screams that were heard in that night of terror. Bellecour's temper
was fast gaining, and as he lost control of himself the inherent
brutality of his character came uppermost.