“’Tis the young Joinville and his brothers,” Marcilly ran on; “child as he is, he thinks himself Dauphin already.”
“As he may be some day.”
“Ah!” called out a woman near us, who bore a child in one arm, while another of eight or ten years clung to her girdle. “Ah! See the young Princes, Henriquet! It will not be long now; let us hasten.”
“One takes long to die by the Estrapade; there will be time,” said the man whom she had addressed, a sober-looking person, evidently of the artisan class, who for one did not seem to enjoy the prospect of witnessing what was to happen.
“And why not, Maître Echelle? Why not? Has he not sinned against the Holy Ghost, and our Lord the Pope? Ah! He is a wicked man. I hope he will take long to die.”
“Have a care, woman!” said Marcilly, whose horse was near her; “have a care of the horse, and learn to be a little more pitiful.”
The woman looked up, and, seeing the black mask and the grim, mud-bespattered figure of Marcilly, shrank back as she muttered, “It is an assassin, an assassin for sure, who goes masked even in plain day.”
“Way then,” I cut in impatiently, and pressing forward, we drove the crowd before us, but ere we had gone ten yards the shrew had recovered her courage and railed after us with her scolding tongue.
“Ho! They are traitors, heretics, those three who ride there! See the masked one with the devil’s face. Traitors! Heretics! To the fire with them!”
In a moment the crowd gathered round us with menacing faces, and from threats it was clear they would soon come to blows. We were forced to draw our swords, and meant to sell our lives dearly if it came to the push, but the sight of the steel cooled the ardor of the mob a little, and they recoiled, only, however, to come on again with renewed boldness. It was our last wish to have anything even approaching a scuffle now, but we were dealing with people gone mad with excitement, and it was hard to say what would happen at any moment.