sans-culottes, and was hence in high glee, a man rejuvenesced. His
sallies grew livelier and more barbed as the death-tide rose higher
about him. His one regret was that he had been so hasty in casting
his snuff box from him, for he was missing its familiar stimulus.
At his side the Marquis was fighting desperately, fencing with his
left arm, and in the hot excitement seeming oblivious of the pain
his broken right must be occasioning.

"It is ended, old friend," he groaned at last, to Des Cadoux. "I
am losing strength, and I shall be done for in a moment. The women,"
he almost sobbed, "mon Dieu, the women!"

Des Cadoux felt his old eyes grow moist, and the odd, fierce mirth
that seemed to have hitherto infected him went out like a candle
that is snuffed. But suddenly before he could make any answer, a
new and unexpected sound, which dominated the din of combat, and
seemed to cause all - assailants and defenders alike - to pause that
they might listen, was wafted to their ears.

It was the roll of the drum. Not the mere thudding that had beaten
the step for the mob, but the steady and vigorous tattoo of many
sticks upon many skins.

"What is it? Who comes?" were the questions that men asked one
another, as both aristocrats and sansculottes paused in their bloody
labours. It was close at hand. So close at hand that they could
discern the tramp of marching feet. In the infernal din of that
fight upon the stairs they had not caught the sound of this approach
until now that the new-comers - whoever they might be - were at the
very gates of Bellecour.