rebellious ranks. There were an almost equal number of women in
crimson caps, their bosoms bare, their heads dishevelled, their
garments filthy and in rags - for the tooth of poverty had bitten
deeply into them during the past months.

As they swung along to the rhythmical thud of the drum, their voices
were raised in a fearful chorus that must have made one think of the
choirs of hell, and the song they sang was the song of Rouget de
l'Isle, which all France had been singing these twelve months past:

"Aux armes, citovens!
Formez vos bataillons.
Allons, marchons!
Qu'un sang inpur
Abreuve nos sillons!"

Ever swelling as they drew nearer came the sound of that terrible
hymn to the ears of the elegant, bejewelled, bepowdered company in
the Chateau. The gates were reached and found barred. An angry
roar went up to Heaven, followed by a hail of blows upon the stout,
ironbound oak, and an imperious call to open.

In the courtyard below the Marquis had posted the handful of servants
that remained faithful - for reasons that Heaven alone may discern -
to the fortunes of the house. He had armed them with carbines and
supplied them with ammunition. He had left them orders to hold off
the mob from the outer gates as long as possible; but should these be
carried, they were to fall back into the Chateau itself, and make fast
the doors. Meanwhile, he was haranguing the gentlemen - some thirty
of them, as we have seen - in the salon and urging them to arm