He fell silent as they entered an open space, overlooked on one side by the dark facade of the cathedral, on the other three sides by houses more or less illumined.  The rabble swept into this open space with them and before them, filled much of it in an instant, and for a while eddied and swirled this way and that, thrust onward by the worshippers who had issued from the church and backwards by those who had been first in the square, and had no mind to be hustled out of hearing.  A stranger, confused by the sea of excited faces, and deafened by the clamour of “Vive le Roi!” “Vive Anjou!” mingled with cries against the Huguenots, might have fancied that the whole city was arrayed before him.  But he would have been wide of the mark.  The scum, indeed—­and a dangerous scum—­frothed and foamed and spat under Tavannes’ bridle-hand; and here and there among them, but not of them, the dark-robed figure of a priest moved to and fro; or a Benedictine, or some smooth-faced acolyte egged on to the work he dared not do.  But the decent burghers were not there.  They lay bolted in their houses; while the magistrates, with little heart to do aught except bow to the mob—­or other their masters for the time being—­shook in their council chamber.

There is not a city of France which has not seen it; which has not known the moment when the mass impended, and it lay with one man to start it or stay its course.  Angers within its houses heard the clamour, and from the child, clinging to its mother’s skirt, and wondering why she wept, to the Provost, trembled, believing that the hour had come.  The Countess heard it too, and understood it.  She caught the savage note in the voice of the mob—­that note which means danger—­and, her heart beating wildly, she looked to her husband.  Then, fortunately for her, fortunately for Angers, it was given to all to see that in Count Hannibal’s saddle sat a man.

He raised his hand for silence, and in a minute or two—­not at once, for the square was dusky—­it was obtained.  He rose in his stirrups, and bared his head.

“I am from the King!” he cried, throwing his voice to all parts of the crowd.  “And this is his Majesty’s pleasure and good will!  That every man hold his hand until to-morrow on pain of death, or worse!  And at noon his further pleasure will be known!  Vive le Roi!”

And he covered his head again.

“Vive le Roi!” cried a number of the foremost.  But their shouts were feeble and half-hearted, and were quickly drowned in a rising murmur of discontent and ill-humour, which, mingled with cries of “Is that all?  Is there no more?  Down with the Huguenots!” rose from all parts.  Presently these cries became merged in a persistent call, which had its origin, as far as could be discovered, in the darkest corner of the square.  A call for “Montsoreau!  Montsoreau!  Give us Montsoreau!”

With another man, or had Tavannes turned or withdrawn, or betrayed the least anxiety, words had become actions, disorder a riot; and that in the twinkling of an eye.  But Count Hannibal, sitting his horse, with his handful of riders behind him, watched the crowd, as little moved by it as the Armed Knight of Notre Dame.  Only once did he say a word.  Then, raising his hand as before to gain a hearing—­