So they pushed and jostled on in the mud, followed the crowd, sang and yelled louder than any of them. Was not that very crowd the great bulwark of their safety? As well have sought for the proverbial needle in the haystack, as for two escaped prisoners in this mad, heaving throng. The large open space in front of the Temple Prison looked like one great, seething, black mass. The darkness was almost thick here, the ground like a morass, with inches of clayey mud, which stuck to everything, whilst the sparse lanterns, hung to the prison walls and beneath the portico, threw practically no light into the square. As the little band, composed of the three Englishmen, and of Déroulède, holding Juliette by the hand, emerged into the open space, they heard a strident cry, like that of a sea-mew thrice repeated, and a hoarse voice shouting from out the darkness: "_Ma foi!_ I'll not believe that the prisoners are in the Temple now! It is my belief, friends, citizens, that we have been fooled once more!" The voice, with its strange, unaccountable accent, which seemed to belong to no province of France, dominated the almost deafening noise; it penetrated through, even into the brandy-soddened minds of the multitude, for the suggestion was received with renewed shouts of the wildest wrath. Like one great, living, seething mass the crowd literally bore down upon the huge and frowning prison. Pushing, jostling, yelling, the women screaming, the men cursing, it seemed as if that awesome day--the 14th of July--was to have its sanguinary counterpart to-night, as if the Temple were destined to share the fate of the Bastille. Obedient to their leader's orders the three young Englishmen remained in the thick of the crowd: together with Déroulède they contrived to form a sturdy rampart round Juliette, effectually protecting her against rough buffetings. On their right, towards the direction of Ménilmontant, the sea-mew's cry at intervals gave the strength and courage. The foremost rank of the crowd had reached the portico of the building, and, with howls and snatches of their gutter song, were loudly clamouring for the guardian of the grim prison. No one appeared; the great gates with their massive bars and hinges remained silent and defiant. The crowd was becoming dangerous: whispers of the victory of the Bastille, five years ago, engendered thoughts of pillage and of arson. Then the strident voice was heard again: "_Pardi!_ the prisoners are not in the Temple! The dolts have allowed them to escape, and now are afraid of the wrath of the people!" It was strange how easily the mob assimilated this new idea. Perhaps the dark, frowning block of massive buildings had overawed them with its peaceful strength, perhaps the dripping rain and oozing clay had damped their desire for an immediate storming of the grim citadel; perhaps it was merely the human characteristic of a wish for something new, something unexpected.