At this moment Coconnas, excited by the shouts, intoxicated by the sight of blood, and exasperated by the long chase, advanced toward the recess; in another instant his sword would have pierced La Mole's heart, and perhaps Marguerite's also.
At the sight of the bare steel, and even more moved at such brutal insolence, the daughter of kings drew herself up to her full stature and uttered such a shriek of terror, indignation, and rage that the Piedmontese stood petrified by an unknown feeling; and yet undoubtedly had this scene been prolonged and no other actor taken part in it, his feeling would have vanished like a morning snow under an April sun. But suddenly a secret door in the wall opened, and a pale young man of sixteen or seventeen, dressed in black and with his hair in disorder, rushed in.
"Wait, sister!" he cried; "here I am, here I am!"
"François! François!" cried Marguerite; "help! help!"
"The Duc d'Alençon!" murmured La Hurière, grounding his arquebuse.
"By Heaven! a son of France!" growled Coconnas, drawing back.
The duke glanced round him. He saw Marguerite, dishevelled, more lovely than ever, leaning against the wall, surrounded by men, fury in their eyes, sweat on their foreheads, and foam in their mouths.
"Wretches!" cried he.
"Save me, brother!" shrieked Marguerite. "They are going to kill me!"
A flame flashed across the duke's pallid face.