and the crowd caught the verse and gave it back, so that shout and scream died away; but in their room swelled the pitiless chorus, as the multitude marched to the lilt of the tune, forming in line, as it were, of their own accord, and beating time to the measure with their feet as they rolled along the long quay in an endless column.
Men, women, and children in that vast assemblage had all gone mad. They marched arm-in-arm, singing their dolorous hymn, some with white faces, others with bloodshot cheeks; but one and all with eager eyes straining before them, and one and all drunk with the wild music of their chant.
In the distance I saw our artisan, he whom I thought had something of pity in his heart; but he, too, had caught the nameless infection, and with head thrown back and staring eyes was singing with the rest, while at his side marched his wife, and her shrill, hard voice rose piercing and high:
“Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère!”
“C’est leur repère!” bellowed the echoing mob, as it swung past us to see a martyr die.
We waited to see no more. Our hearts were already sick enough, and, seizing the opportunity given to us, passed through the gates, and took our way to the house of Cipierre, over the uneven and still slippery cobble-stones of the ill-paved Rue Royale.
“If I live a hundred years, I shall never forget to-day,” said Marcilly, as we rode together side by side.
“And yet we have actually seen nothing. Still, I agree with you. I have never felt the horror that I felt to-day.”
“It is, I think, what we have not seen which affects us.”
And then perhaps the same thought came to us both, and we lapsed into silence.