"Ay!" shouted the butcher, grasping the idea, and at the same time spitting on his hands and taking a fresh grip of the axe, "Show us the heretic dog, and go! Let us at him."
"M. de Pavannes," I said coolly—but I could not take my eyes off the shining blade of that man's axe, it was so very broad and sharp—"is not here!"
"That is a lie! He is in that room behind you!" the prudent gentleman in the background called out. "Give him up!"
"Ay, give him up!" echoed the man of the pole-axe almost good humouredly, "or it will be the worse for you. Let us have at him and get you gone!"
This with an air of much reason, while a growl as of a chained beast ran through the crowd, mingled with cries of "A MORT LES HUGUENOTS! VIVE LORRAINE!"—cries which seemed to show that all did not approve of the indulgence offered us.
"Beware, gentlemen, beware," I urged, "I swear he is not here! I swear it, do you hear?"
A howl of impatience and then a sudden movement of the crowd as though the rush were coming warned me to temporize no longer. "Stay! Stay!" I added hastily. "One minute! Hear me! You are too many for us. Will you swear to let us go safe and untouched, if we give you passage?"
A dozen voices shrieked assent. But I looked at the butcher only. He seemed to be an honest man, out of his profession.
"Ay, I swear it!" he cried with a nod.
"By the Mass?"