came a little faster. “Quick, before it be too late! Will you save life, or will you kill?”
She looked at her lover with eyes of agony, dumbly questioning him. But he made no sign, and only Tavannes marked the look.
“Monsieur has done what he can to save himself,” he said, with a sneer. “He has donned the livery of the King’s servants; he has said, ‘Whoever perishes, I will live!’ But—”
“Curse you!” the young man cried, and, stung to madness, he tore the cross from his cap and flung it on the ground. He seized his white sleeve and ripped it from shoulder to elbow. Then, when it hung by the string only, he held his hand.
“Curse you!” he cried furiously. “I will not at your bidding! I may save her yet! I will save her!”
“Fool!” Tavannes answered—but his words were barely audible above the deafening uproar. “Can you fight a thousand? Look! Look!” and seizing the other’s wrist he pointed to the window.
The street glowed like a furnace in the red light of torches, raised on poles above a sea of heads; an endless sea of heads, and gaping faces, and tossing arms which swept on and on, and on and by. For a while it seemed that the torrent would flow past them and would leave them safe. Then came a check, a confused outcry, a surging this way and that; the torches reeled to and fro, and finally, with a dull roar of “Open! Open!” the mob faced about to the house and the lighted window.
For a second it seemed that even Count Hannibal’s iron nerves shook a little. He stood between the sullen group that surrounded the disordered table and the maddened rabble, that gloated on the victims before they tore them to pieces. “Open! Open!” the mob howled: and a man dashed in the window with his pike.
