For a moment Gilles stands quite still, almost isolated where he is, a little dizzy with excitement and with loss of blood. An uncomfortable veil is fast gathering in front of his eyes. 'I shall have to see to this stupid scratch,' he murmurs to himself.
It had all occurred so quickly—within a brief quarter of an hour. And yet the destinies of nations had been recast during that time. Now the city fathers, the provosts, Monseigneur himself, are crowding round the one man who they feel might still save them from dishonour.
'Your Highness, we look to you,' Monseigneur is saying.
'Tell us what you wish done,' adds the Chief Magistrate.
'The Provosts await your Highness' orders,' rejoins a pompous dignitary, whilst yet another continues in the same strain: 'We are body and soul at your Highness' commands.'
Their voices come to Gilles as if from somewhere far away. They are drowned by the tumult of the beleaguered city preparing for a last stand. But the instinct of the soldier keeps him steadfast on his feet. He makes a violent effort to keep his head clear and his voice firm. He gives orders to the Chief Magistrate, the Provosts, the Mayors of the Guilds. The forts must be visited at once, the men encouraged, the officers admonished. Every hour, every minute almost is now of priceless value. The troop brought over by Messire de Balagany, encamped at La Fère cannot be here before sundown. Until then the men must stand. Oh! they must stand, Messires! Despite crumbling walls and hecatombs of dead! Let the men know that the existence of their country is hanging to-day by a thread!
The Guild of Armourers must open up its stores: pikes, lances, halberts, muskets, must be distributed to a contingent of citizens, who, though untrained, will help to strengthen the living wall. The Guild of Apothecaries must be ready with ambulances and dressings, and stretcher-bearers must work wonders so that the fighters are not encumbered by the dead.
The Chief Engineer of the city must see to barricading the streets with double rows of hurdles, or boxes, or furniture, or lumber of any sorts, with sacks filled with earth, empty carts, wagons, clothing, anything and everything that may be handy. The reservoirs of the city must be patrolled, and if it be deemed necessary, they must be opened and the water allowed to flood the low-lying streets by the river, if the enemy succeed in obtaining a foothold there. Countermines must be laid; every one must to his task, and he who does not fight must think and work and endure.
Every one obeys. One by one, the dignitaries file away to execute the orders which have been given them. They all accept the leadership of this man, whom they still believe to be the Duc d'Anjou, their future Sovereign Lord.
'Ah, Monseigneur!' exclaims d'Inchy warmly. 'I thank God on my knees that you are with us to-day, and that it is you who will defend our city—the most precious pearl in your future inheritance.'