"Kill them—kill the vermin, before they run to ground. Mille diables! Kill them, vile aristos."
But pistols were few amongst his followers, and, though men started quickly enough in pursuit, Michael and his companion had reached the porch first, and made haste to slip heavy bars across the oaken door before their adversaries flung themselves, cursing and yelling, against it from without. The situation promised to be a desperate one.
All hope that the mob would listen to their new lord was gone.
Monsieur le Marquis had come too late. What therefore remained?
Little enough, save to die, crying, "Vive le roi," "Vive Bretagne" in the face of these murderers of king and country. So Count Jéhan thought.
But Michael found not the smallest consolation in such a prospect.
Life was strong in his veins,—life and love. It was not only for his own sake that that life was precious.
Gabrielle must be saved—and those other poor ladies of Kérnak.
But how could they be reached? How were they to save themselves?
Already the great crowd was surging about the door. Ere long they would be in the Manor itself,—and after that——? Michael did not look further.