“Malédiction!” shrieked a filthy Alsatian, whom he had sent reeling with his elbow; “but I will teach thee the answer to that!”
He swung up a bloody cleaver, clearing a space about him. The girl, on the thought, ran under his guard.
“Théroigne!” screamed a woman’s voice across the yard. “It is la belle Liégeoise—our little amazon!”
Her cloak had fallen apart. She was revealed to these her friends. At the word, a roar went up from the mob; the offending patriot was struck down, trampled upon; the girl herself stamped upon his face.
“Hither!” screamed the voice again, “to the best seats in all the theatre!”
Then at once Ned felt himself urged forward. He went, dazed. His feet slid on the stones—plashed once or twice. He saw a great light—light jumping from the brands held high by a lurid row of women stationed on the topmost step of the shallow flight that led to the great door. He saw Théroigne seized and embraced by these harpies. Her skirt, that had been all white, bore a clownish fringe of crimson.
“I cannot stay here,” she cried. “I have business within.”
They answered, clattering: “Get it over and return, little badine, for the sight is good.”
The next moment he and the girl were at the door. A group of four, issuing, scrambled past, almost upsetting them. A patriot to each shoulder and one fastened on like a dog at the back! It seemed an extravagant guard to one sick collapsed thing borne in the midst. They ran it down the steps; the torches fluttered and poised steady. Ned flung himself through the doorway, crushing his hands against his ears. Somebody touched and led him forward.
As his brain cleared, he saw that he was standing—somewhat apart from any other—in a large, dimly lighted room. A man of a fierce and sensual mould of feature was seated hard by at a table, a great open register before him, a tin box of tobacco and some bottles within his ready reach. Round about lolled on benches pulled away from the walls, perhaps a dozen, more or less tipsy, judges (saving the mark!) subordinate to the president. A couple of men with red-stained arms and in steaming shirts stood by the closed door. An old dumb-faced turnkey held his hand to the lock.