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!”

“On!” shouted his followers, striking about them in the same desperate fashion.  They were young nobles who had spent the night feasting at the Palace, and, drunk with wine and mad with excitement, had left the Louvre at daybreak to rouse the city.  “A Jarnac!  A Jarnac!” they cried, and some saluted Count Hannibal as they passed.  And so, shouting and spurring and following their leader, they swept away down the now empty street, carrying terror and a flame wherever their horses bore them that morning.

Tavannes, his hands on the ledge of the shattered window, leaned out laughing, and followed them with his eyes.  A moment, and the mob was gone, the street was empty; and one by one, with sheepish faces, his pikemen emerged from the doorways and alleys in which they had taken refuge.  They gathered about the three huddled forms which lay prone and still in the gutter:  or, not three—­two.  For even as they approached them, one, the priest, rose slowly and giddily to his feet.  He turned a face bleeding, lean, and relentless towards the window at which Tavannes stood.  Solemnly, with the sign of the cross, and with uplifted hands, he cursed him in bed and at board, by day and by night, in walking, in riding, in standing, in the day of battle, and at the hour of death.  The pikemen fell back appalled, and hid their eyes; and those who were of the north crossed themselves, and those who came from the south bent two fingers horse-shoe fashion.  But Hannibal de Tavannes laughed; laughed in his moustache, his teeth showing, and bade them move that carrion to a distance, for it would smell when the sun was high.  Then he turned his back on the street, and looked into the room.

CHAPTER VII.  IN THE AMPHITHEATRE.