“To arms! to arms!”
“Let us make a petard to blow up the gate of the moat on the land side!”
“Death, death to Raimond V.!”
Seeing the fury of the populace, the recorder and the consul began to fear that they had gone too far, and that they would find it impossible to control the passions they had so imprudently unchained.
“My friends,—my children!” cried Talebard-Tale-bardon, addressing the most excited of the speakers, “be moderate. Run to the fishing-nets,—that you may do, but make no attack upon Maison-Forte, or upon the life of the baron!”
“No pity!—no pity! You yourself have told us, consul, that Raimond was going to fire on the city and the port and do worse than the Duke d’Epernon and his Gascons.”
“Yes, yes. Let us destroy the old wolfs den and nail him to his door!”
“To Maison-Forte!”
“To Maison-Forte!”
Such were the furious cries which met the tardy words of moderation, which the consul now tried to make the excited people heed.