the dark gap and dashing with deafening yells into the crimson light
of the courtyard. He saw his little handful of servants retreat
precipitately within the Chateau. He heard the clang of the doors
that were swung to just as the foremost of the rabble reached the
threshold - With all this clearly stamped upon his mind, he turned,
and springing into the salon he drew his sword.

"To the stairs, Messieurs!" he cried "To the stairs!"

And to the stairs they went. The extremity was now too great for
argument. They dared not so much as look at their women-folk, lest
they should be unmanned by the sight of those huddled creatures -
their finery but serving to render them the more pitiable in their
sickly affright. In a body the whole thirty of them swept from the
room, and with Bellecour at their head and Ombreval somewhere in the
rearmost rank, they made their way to the great staircase.

Here, armed with their swords and a brace of pistols to each man,
whilst for a few the Marquis had even found carbines, they waited,
with faces set and lips tight pressed for the end that they knew
approached.

Nor was their waiting long. As the peasants had blown down the
gates so now did they blow down the doors of the Chateau, and in the
explosion three of Bellecour's servants - who had stood too near -
were killed. Over the threshold they swarmed into the dark gulf of
the great hall to the foot of the staircase. But here they were at
a disadvantage. The light of the burning stables, shining through
the open doorway, revealed them to the defenders, whilst they
themselves looked up into the dark. There was a sudden cracking of