The beast he had trained and led was of no such mind. A man called out, "Die like a man, coward!" A stone or two flew. One struck him. The storm broke out anew.
"Say thy prayers. Thou art dead. Shall I kill him, monsieur?"
"No, no; not that man—not him!"
"Mercy!" screamed Despard.
"The deuce!" laughed François. "It gets warm, monsieur. What to do with this coward? Keep still, insect!"
The mob had for a little time enough of these terrible swordsmen on the stair. It was awed, helpless. Below lay, head down or athwart, three dead men, and certain wounded, unable to crawl. The mob shrank away, and, with eyes red in the glare, swayed to and fro, indecisive, swearing. For a moment no more missiles were thrown. They awaited the expected attack from the rear of the house.
Pierre hung, a limp, inert thing, one arm on the balustrade, the thief's strong clutch on his neck, making his shivering bulk a shield against stick and stone.
"It will soon be over," said the marquis, quietly. "There! I thought so."
A dull roar was heard, and the crash of broken glass from somewhere behind them.
This signal set loose the cowed mob. Clubs and stones flew. Something struck Pierre. He squealed like a hurt animal, pain and terror in the childlike cry. More men crowded in, and the mass, with shout and cry, surged forward, breaking mirrors and vases, with frantic joy in the clatter of destruction.