A moment's hush, then again the mighty cry:
"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"
Morice leant forward into the darkness. Behind him lights gleamed, from below a few torches lit up the surrounding gloom.
Yellow light flaring on pale, eager faces, turning curiously upwards.
"No, my people," he cried in clear, ringing tones, that could be heard even on the outskirts of the crowd. "I am no Citoyen, but your Marquis, the heir of your well-loved Marquis Gilles de Varenac, come to you from England with Breton blood in my veins, Breton love in my heart, to cry 'Vive le roi. Vive la reine. Vive Bretagne.'"
A murmur broke his words, a murmur which grew, battling as it were with two elements, uncertain and faltering.
That last cry had stirred their blood—and yet the poison, so cunningly distilled amongst them, was busy at work.
And, whilst they still wavered, some crying one thing, and some another, a shrill voice rose, dominating and stilling the growing outcry.
"À bas les aristos," it yelled. "Down with traitors and liars. Hein! men of Brittany, are you such fools? That is no Citoyen Varenac, he is an impostor. The Citoyen has another voice. He cries 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive liberté.' As for that fellow, he is no Varenac but a liar. Come, let us find the Citoyen before his enemies murder him. Let us——"
"I am the Marquis de Varenac," cried Morice, "as Heaven is above. Men of Varenac, listen to me. Will you believe one who knows? Pierre Koustak will tell you I speak truth."