“Oh, it is you, my friends, from the village? Wait a moment.” He stepped back into the room and caught up a lamp. “No, don’t come out, please, Father, for a moment.” The ring of light showed, a few feet below, a knot of peasants, armed. And in a flash the young man understood. His heart leapt. “It has come,” he said to himself. Aloud he said: “You have come to ask Monsieur le Marquis to lead you, perhaps?” A shout of joyful asseveration was the response, and in the increasing din from the front other figures, attracted by the light which he was holding, began to pour round the corner of the château, vociferating wildly, and evidently mistaking him for his cousin. “Monsieur le Marquis is not here at present,” said Saint-Ermay in his clear, carrying voice, “but he will soon be back. Go round, my friends, to the front, and Monsieur le Curé and I will come to you at the steps.” “You are sure, Monsieur Louis, that Monsieur le Marquis will be back soon?” enquired an anxious voice. “We expect him every moment,” said Louis confidently, and went in with his lamp. M. des Graves had dropped to his knees before the crucifix on his writing-table. His face was hidden in his hands. Louis looked at him as he set down the lamp, hesitated, then hurried from the room. In the hall were gathered the domestics, plainly terrified, and with some cause, for the great door was resounding under repeated blows, not all effected with the human hand. “Open the door, Pierre!” commanded the Vicomte. “There is nothing to be afraid of.” Yet even as he spoke there was audible, through the hammering and the muffled shouts, the sharp crash of broken glass. “Morbleu!” muttered the young man, frowning, “we can’t have that. Open the door, imbeciles, unless you want it to be driven in!—I must open it myself, then.” He was actually pulling at the bolts before he found old Antoine and Jasmin beside him. At the noise of the unbolting the hammering ceased, the door swung open, and Louis stepped out into a clamour and a scene which reminded him, instantly and none too pleasantly, of that day, three and a half years ago, when the Paris mob had raved outside the railings of the great courtyard at Versailles. Here was the same indescribable atmosphere of emotion, the same medley of weapons, the same sea of excited faces. Yet it was different, for as the light streamed out behind him and he was recognised, a wave, not of that deadly hostility, but of welcome surged towards him. “It is Monsieur le Vicomte! A la bonne heure, Monsieur Louis! Vive Monsieur Louis! Ohé, Monsieur le Vicomte, are you coming with us?”