She glanced behind. Bridle to bridle the Count's men came on, pressing round her women and shielding them from the exuberance of the throng. In their faces too she thought that she traced uneasiness.
What wonder if the scenes through which she had passed in Paris began to recur to her mind, and shook nerves already overwrought?
She began to tremble. "Is there--danger?" she muttered, speaking in a low voice to Bigot, who rode on her right hand. "Will they do anything?"
The Norman snorted. "Not while he is in the saddle," he said, nodding towards his master, who rode a pace in front of them, his reins loose. "There be some here know him!" Bigot continued, in his drawling tone. "And more will know him if they break line. Have no fear, madame, he will bring you safe to the inn. Down with the Huguenots?" he continued, turning from her and addressing a rogue who, holding his stirrup, was shouting the cry till he was crimson. "Then why not away, and----"
"The King! The King's word and leave!" the man answered.
"Ay, tell us!" shrieked another, looking upward, while he waved his cap; "have we the King's leave?"
"You'll bide his leave!" the Norman retorted, indicating the Count with his thumb. "Or 'twill be up with you--on the three-legged horse!"
"But he comes from the King!" the man panted.
"To be sure. To be sure!"
"Then----"