'France! France!'
The crowd has listened spellbound while the masked stranger bandied words with that bastard Spaniard, whom they had all learned to loathe long ago. His cheery voice, his confident bearing, his exultation, have already warmed their hearts. Something of their terror has vanished; they are no longer like a herd of awestruck beasts, driven aimlessly along by senseless terror. There is nothing in the world so infectious as fear, except courage and enthusiasm: and Gilles' martial figure, the proud carriage of his head, his vibrant voice and flashing sword, are there to infuse valour even in the most abject.
The captain of the guard and his men had winced before de Landas' threats. Old habits of discipline could not all in a moment be shaken off. But now they feel that the crowd is at one with them in their enthusiasm for the stranger, and also that they will be given a chance of retrieving their shameful act of cowardice of awhile ago. So, when the crowd cheers, the soldiers, despite de Landas' black looks and his brutal menaces, following their captain's lead, cheer too. They cheer until the very walls of the ancient city reverberate with the sound.
'France! France!'
Then suddenly Gilles, at the top of the perron steps, quick as lightning, runs to the nearest earthenware pot which is filled with the Madonna lilies. He plucks out a sheaf of the flowers, and with a loud cry: 'Soldiers of Cambray, rally to the standard of France! To the unconquered Flower o' the Lily!' he throws the flowers one by one to the soldiers and their captain. The men seize them as they fly through the air and fasten them to their bonnets or their belts. The crowd acclaims the spirited deed:
'Long live the flower o' the lily!' they shout.
Now Gilles is running from pot to pot. He snatches sheaf after sheaf of lilies and throws them to the crowd. The flowers are caught up with ever growing ardour, whilst every corner of the Place rings with the triumphant call: 'France! France!'
Far away the cannon is roaring, the air is rent with the sharp report of muskets and the crumbling of masonry. The translucent April sky hath taken on a lurid hue. Around the city walls the brutal enemy is already swarming; he is battering at the gates, has climbed the fortifications, run triumphantly to the assault. Awhile ago the crowd had cowered at the sound, fled terrified at his approach. Now every heart is thrilled with fervour, every soul responds to the appeal of an enthusiast, and is glowing with the hope of victory.
And de Landas, blind with fury, sees the fruits of his abominable treachery crumbling to dust before his eyes. He glowers on every one around him like a stricken bull, with rage and frenzy enkindled in his eyes. And suddenly, before any one there can guess his purpose, he has laid savage hands on the Captain of the guard, and drawing a pistol from his belt he points it at the unfortunate man's breast.
'If one of you dares to utter another sound, or to stir from this spot,' he shrieks out in a shrill and husky voice, 'I'll shoot this dog where he stands.'