But against the solid walls and oak-barred door of the house the wave beat, only to fall back again, a broken, seething mass of brandished arms and ravening faces.  One point alone was vulnerable, the window, and there in the gap stood Tavannes.  Quick as thought he fired two pistols into the crowd; then, while the smoke for a moment hid all, he whistled.

Whether the signal was a summons to his men to fight their way back—­as they were doing to the best of their power—­or he had resources still unseen, was not to be known.  For as the smoke began to rise, and while the rabble before the window, cowed by the fall of two of their number, were still pushing backward instead of forward, there rose behind them strange sounds—­yells, and the clatter of hoofs, mingled with screams of alarm.  A second, and into the loose skirts of the crowd came charging helter-skelter, pell-mell, a score of galloping, shrieking, cursing horsemen, attended by twice as many footmen, who clung to their stirrups or to the tails of the horses, and yelled and whooped, and struck in unison with the maddened riders.

“On! on!” the foremost shrieked, rolling in his saddle, and foaming at the mouth.  “Bleed in August, bleed in May!  Kill!” And he fired a pistol among the rabble, who fled every way to escape his rearing, plunging charger.

“Kill!  Kill!” cried his followers, cutting the air with their swords, and rolling to and fro on their horses in drunken emulation.  “Bleed in August, bleed in May!”

“On!  On!” cried the leader, as the crowd which beset the house fled every way before his reckless onset.  “Bleed in August, bleed in May!”

The rabble fled, but not so quickly but that one or two were ridden down, and this for an instant checked the riders.  Before they could pass on—­

“Ohe!” cried Count Hannibal from his window.  “Ohe!” with a shout of laughter, “ride over them, dear brother!  Make me a clean street for my wedding!”

Marshal Tavannes—­for he, the hero of Jarnac, was the leader of this wild orgy—­turned that way, and strove to rein in his horse.

“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!”