I followed the Nationals, thinking they would most likely retire in the direction of the council chamber.
This they did, and that apartment was speedily filled. I caught a glimpse of Latour, round whom the handful of loyalists pressed. His face was pale; otherwise he showed no sign of fear, but gazed calmly on the throng of butchers. Once he made an attempt to speak, but his words were drowned in the tumult.
"Kill Latour!" was the savage cry. Beyond that one scarcely heard anything.
However, the brave Nationals resolved to make a fight of it, and by a stroke of great good fortune I managed to join them.
"Long live Latour! Long live the gallant count!" I cried, with all the strength of my lungs, and his defenders echoed the cry.
But the others drowned our shouts with "Kill Latour!" and one man, towering above the rest, sprang at the count with uplifted axe.
It was the burly ruffian who had walked with us a short time in the morning, and at sight of me his face grew black as a thunder-cloud.
"Traitor!" he shouted, and, swinging round, aimed his axe full at my head.
There was little time for action, much less for thought; but, having my pistol free, I levelled it swiftly, and shot the truculent bully dead.
The count threw me a glance of gratitude mingled with pity; and in truth it appeared as if I needed the latter.