“Oh! ye men of Paris, ye are worse than the Pagans of old Rome.”
Just then the mangonels firing from the Porte Saint-Denis mingled their thunder with Brother Joconde’s voice and shook the bystanders’ hearts within them. Some one in the press cried out, “Death! death to traitors!” All this time Messire Florimont Lecocq was within-doors doing on his armour. He now came forth at the noise, before he had buckled his leg-pieces. Seeing the Monk standing on his mounting-block, he asked: “What is this good Father saying?” And a chorus of voices answered: “Telling us that Messire Charles of Valois is going to enter the city,” while others cried:
“He is against the folk of Paris,” and others again:
“He would fain cozen and betray us, like the Brother Richard, who at this very time is riding with our enemies.”
But Brother Joconde made answer: “There be neither Armagnacs, nor Burgundians, nor French, nor English, but only the sons of light and the sons of darkness. Ye are lewd fellows and your women wantons.”
“Go to, thou apostate! thou sorcerer! thou traitor!” yelled Messire Florimont Lecocq,—and lugging out his sword, he plunged it in the good Brother’s bosom.
With pale lips and faltering voice, the man of God still managed to say:
“Pray, fast, do penance, and ye shall be forgiven, my brethren...”
Then his voice choked, as the blood poured from his mouth, and he fell on the stones. Two knights, Sir John Stewart and Sir George Morris, threw themselves on the body and pierced it with more than a hundred dagger thrusts, vociferating:
“Long life to King Henry! Long life to my Lord the Duke of Bedford! Down with the Dauphin! Down with the mad Maid of the Armagnacs! Up, up! To the Gates, to the Gates!”