The vapour parted. Three men were seen cautiously advancing; beyond them, confusedly, in the ragged breach, Diana caught a glimpse of the street and a crowd of begrimed faces, in brutal exultation, brutal lust of destruction. Ravening as wild beasts behind bars, something yet seemed to hold them back. The next instant, as she recognised Lionel, she knew whose power at once excited and restrained the mob. Waving his sword, he advanced, scarce a fold out of place in his handsome suit, plumed hat on his head, the red curls of his great wig hanging ordered on either side of the long, pale face. Their eyes met; she saw the gleam in his, and her heart turned sick. The two that strode behind him were dark-visaged, sinister enough, yet had something of the same air, as of men decorously carrying through a necessary act of violence. Lionel Ratcliffe halted a pace in front of his old kinswoman and swept an ironical bow. There was no flinching of shame in him as he met the stern challenge of her eye. “Out of my way, madam,” he cried. “I’m not here to deal with you. You’ve not chosen to take my warning; take your lot. My business is with my cousin here, whom you unlawfully detain.—Diana, I have seen to your safety.” He made an almost imperceptible gesture of his hand as he concluded. The two men darted forward. Hideous confusion instantly sprang up. Diana remembered (and afterward it was with tender laughter) seeing the Mother Abbess strike out right lustily with her pastoral staff; to such good purpose, indeed, that Lionel’s sword was snapped at mid-blade as he tried to parry her blow. At the same instant there was a deafening report in her ear: Bindon had loosed his musket. The foremost of Ratcliffe’s attendants threw up his arms and fell forward. Then she felt herself grasped, and knew the hated touch. “Diana, are you mad?” Lionel was whispering fiercely. “’Tis life or death!… If you are seen to struggle now, you, whom this rabble believes I come to rescue from the papists, you are lost, even as the others!” Through Lionel’s words she was aware of the wild-beast roar, execrating:— “Kill the papists! Burn them! Fire the convent—fire for fire!” She was aware also of the invisible bars broken down, of the rush. And next, even to her bewildered senses, there came the feeling of a change, a halt. It was like a flood at full tide miraculously arrested. Shots followed each other in rapid succession outside; and other sounds now, a roll of drums, words of command, some cheers, began to mingle with those hideous recurrent yells. The throng that struggled to pour in through the broken door recoiled. “The guards! the guards are on us!” was now the cry. And with the curious unanimity of crowds general panic succeeded general fury. Above the torrential sound of feet on the pavement, a voice, clear yet panting, like the blast of a running trumpeter, rose ever nearer. “Make way, in the King’s name!”