“What ails them?” he cried, as the maddened animal reared upright, its iron hoofs striking fire from the slippery pavement.
“They are rearing like thy Bayard!” Count Hannibal answered. “Whip them, whip them for me! Tavannes! Tavannes!”
“What? This canaille?”
“Ay, that canaille!”
“Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!” the Marshal replied, and spurred his horse among the rabble, who had fled to the sides of the street and now strove hard to efface themselves against the walls. “Begone, dogs; begone!” he cried, still hunting them. And then, “You would bite, would you?” And snatching another pistol from his boot, he fired it among them, careless whom he hit. “Ha! ha! That stirs you, does it!” he continued, as the wretches fled headlong. “Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes! On! On!”
Suddenly, from a doorway near at hand, a sombre figure darted into the roadway, caught the Marshal’s rein, and for a second checked his course. The priest—for a priest it was, Father Pezelay, the same who had addressed the mob—held up a warning hand.
“Halt!” he cried, with burning eyes. “Halt, my lord! It is written, thou shalt not spare the Canaanitish woman. ’Tis not to spare the King has given command and a sword, but to kill! ’Tis not to harbour, but to smite! To smite!”
“Then smite I will!” the Marshal retorted, and with the butt of his pistol struck the zealot down. Then, with as much indifference as he would have treated a Huguenot, he spurred his horse over him, with a mad laugh at his jest. “Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!” he yelled. “Touches Tavannes! On! On! Bleed in August, bleed in May!”
