He was unarmed, but sustained, no doubt, by the consciousness of his rank, he advanced with clinched fists toward Coconnas and his companions, who retreated, terrified at the lightning darting from his eyes.
"Ha! and will you murder a son of France, too?" cried the duke. Then, as they recoiled,—"Ho, there! captain of the guard! Hang every one of these ruffians!"
More alarmed at the sight of this weaponless young man than he would have been at the aspect of a regiment of reiters or lansquenets, Coconnas had already reached the door. La Hurière was leaping downstairs like a deer, and the soldiers were jostling and pushing one another in the vestibule in their endeavors to escape, finding the door far too small for their great desire to be outside it. Meantime Marguerite had instinctively thrown the damask coverlid of her bed over La Mole, and withdrawn from him.
When the last murderer had departed the Duc d'Alençon came back:
"Sister," he cried, seeing Marguerite all dabbled with blood, "are you wounded?" And he sprang toward his sister with a solicitude which would have done credit to his affection if he had not been charged with harboring too deep an affection for a brother to entertain for a sister.
"No," said she; "I think not, or, if so, very slightly."
"But this blood," said the duke, running his trembling hands all over Marguerite's body. "Where does it come from?"
"I know not," replied she; "one of those wretches laid his hand on me, and perhaps he was wounded."
"What!" cried the duke, "he dared to touch my sister? Oh, if you had only pointed him out to me, if you had told me which one it was, if I knew where to find him"—
"Hush!" said Marguerite.