“Name of the devil!” roared Badehorn to a group of a half-dozen or so of Light Horse, in the black and yellow of Guise, “keep off these dogs, else there will be bloodshed.”
“That is your affair,” answered their leader, an Italian, in his lisping French. “We are not police.”
“You will answer for this, though,” said I hotly, as I made my horse curvet and kick, for the crowd began to rush in again.
They laughed loudly in reply, and, emboldened by this, there was another rush, and Badehorn was almost pulled from his saddle. Inch by inch, however, we made our way somehow, taking advantage of every foot of space that was given, and clearing the path by sweeping the flats of our swords to the right and left. But this could not go on for long, and we were scarce a hand’s breadth from the most deadly peril when, in a momentary pause, I called out:
“Fools! Are you mad that you listen to an angry woman and try to hinder us who ride for Her Majesty the Queen-Mother! Way! Way! Else beware the carcan and the lash!”
The boldness with which I said this had some effect; the crowd hesitated a little, yet still we were not safe, and they were preparing to launch themselves on us again when a low murmur caught our ears, and arrested those about us, a murmur that increased in volume and intensity until it became a deep, hoarse roar.
“The patient! The patient! He comes!”
In one moment we were utterly forgotten. In one moment we were safe. In the absorbing interest before them the mob let us drop as an ape drops an empty nutshell, and pressed forward with mad strugglings and fierce yells toward the scaffoldings. Far within the choking, gasping mass some one began to sing that terrible death song, which has rung in the ears of so many martyrs of the faith:
“Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère.
Faites en justice! Dieu l’a permis,”