“Who is it?” asked madame. “Who is it that you wish to kill?”
“The scoundrel who set these peasants on.”
“Who seeks your life?”
“Oh, more than my life, madame!” he answered hoarsely. “More than my life! I could forgive him that!”
For a moment she stared at him, not understanding. Then her face went white with horror and she put out a hand for support.
“It cannot come to that!” she murmured. “At least we will not let it come to that!”
“No,” he said, and drew her to him. “Do not fear, my love. It shall never come to that!”
The firing had slackened and at last we ventured to look down again. The mob had drawn away from the tower and had gathered into little groups, staring up at it.
“It is to be a siege,” said M. le Comte, laughing grimly. “If we were only provisioned we might hold out indefinitely—and these rogues have little patience.”
But Pasdeloup shook his head.