They passed along a narrow street in which the rabble, hurrying at Count Hannibal’s bridle, and often looking back to read his face, had much ado to escape harm; along this street and before the yawning doors of a great church whence a breath heavy with incense and burning wax issued to meet them.  A portion of the congregation had heard the tumult and struggled out, and now stood close-packed on the steps under the double vault of the portal.  Among them the Countess’s eyes, as she rode by, a sturdy man-at-arms on either hand, caught and held one face.  It was the face of a tall, lean man in dusty black; and though she did not know him she seemed to have an equal attraction for him; for as their eyes met he seized the shoulder of the man next him and pointed her out.  And something in the energy of the gesture, or in the thin lips and malevolent eyes of the man who pointed, chilled the Countess’s blood and shook her, she knew not why.

Until then, she had known no fear save of her husband.  But at that a sense of the force and pressure of the crowd—­as well as of the fierce passions, straining about her, which a word might unloose—­broke upon her; and looking to the stern men on either side she fancied that she read anxiety in their faces.

She glanced behind.  Boot to boot, 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—­”

“You’ll bide his time!  That’s all!” Bigot answered, rather it seemed for his own satisfaction than the other’s enlightenment.  “You’ll all bide it, you dogs!” he continued in his beard, as he cast his eye over the weltering crowd.  “Ha! so we are here, are we?  And not too soon, either.”