At Odo’s appearance the shouting had ceased and every eye was turned on him.  He stood there, a brilliant target, in his laced coat of peach-coloured velvet, his breast covered with orders, a hand on his jewelled sword-hilt.  For a moment sovereign and subjects measured each other; and in that moment Odo drank his deepest draught of life.  He was not thinking now of the constitution or its opponents.  His present business was to get down the steps and into the carriage, returning to the palace as openly as he had come.  He was conscious of neither pity nor hatred for the throng in his path.  For the moment he regarded them merely as a natural force, to be fought against like storm or flood.  His clearest sensation was one of relief at having at last some material obstacle to spend his strength against, instead of the impalpable powers which had so long beset him.  He felt, too, a boyish satisfaction at his own steadiness of pulse and eye, at the absence of that fatal inertia which he had come to dread.  So clear was his mental horizon that it embraced not only the present crisis, but a dozen incidents leading up to it.  He remembered that Trescorre had urged him to take a larger escort, and that he had refused on the ground that any military display might imply a doubt of his people.  He was glad now that he had done so.  He would have hated to slink to his carriage behind a barrier of drawn swords.  He wanted no help to see him through this business.  The blood sang in his veins at the thought of facing it alone.

The silence lasted but a moment; then an image of the Mountain Virgin was suddenly thrust in air, and a voice cried out:  “Down with our Lady’s enemies!  We want no laws against the friars!”

A howl caught up the words and tossed them to and fro above the seething heads.  Images of the Virgin, religious banners, the blue-and-white of the Madonna’s colours, suddenly canopied the crowd.

“We want the Barnabites back!” sang out another voice.

“Down with the free-thinkers!” yelled a hundred angry throats.

A stone or two sped through the air and struck the sculptures of the porch.

“Your Highness!” cried the equerry who stood nearest, and would have snatched the Duke back within doors.

For all answer, Odo stepped clear of the porch and advanced to the edge of the steps.  As he did so, a shower of missiles hummed about him, and a stone struck him on the lip.  The blood rushed to his head, and he swayed in the sudden grip of anger; but he mastered himself and raised his lace handkerchief to the cut.

His gentlemen had drawn their swords; but he signed to them to sheathe again.  His first thought was that he must somehow make the people hear him.  He lifted his hand and advanced a step; but as he did so a shot rang out, followed by a loud cry.  The lieutenant of the light-horse, infuriated by the insult to his master, had drawn the pistol from his holster and fired blindly into the crowd.  His bullet had found a mark, and the throng hissed and seethed about the spot where a man had fallen.  At the same instant Odo was aware of a commotion in the group behind him, and with a great plunge of the heart he saw Fulvia at his side.  She still wore the academic dress, and her black gown detached itself sharply against the bright colours of the ducal uniforms.