Presently a note was brought from the Queen to Belloc, who, reading it hastily, told the messenger to inform her Majesty that her commands should be obeyed; then turning to us, he added that no one was to fire a shot until he himself gave the signal. "Her Majesty," he explained, "hopes no blood will be shed, but that the mob having discovered its mistake will disperse quietly." "A fig for the mob!" said a grim-looking trooper to a comrade; "let our leader give the word and we will soon clear the courtyard." "Here comes an officer," said another; "he is wearing the Orleans colours. What does he want?" "Bah!" cried a third trooper, who spoke with a strange accent, "this isn't the way to quell a riot. My old master lost his head through not knowing how to deal with rebels. The block for the leaders and a whipping for the others would soon teach them their manners." The words and the accent made me look at the speaker more closely. He was a young fellow with fair hair and blue eyes like D'Arcy, but he was built more stoutly and looked stronger altogether. His name, I learned afterwards, was John Humphreys, and he was the son of an English gentleman who had lost his estates through fighting for his King, Charles I. At the moment, however, I could not think much of this young exile, my attention being engrossed by the Orleanist officer, who rode across the courtyard towards us. "Raoul!" I exclaimed to myself, and drew back into the shadow, not caring that he should notice me. He did not seem very happy, and approached our leader as if thoroughly ashamed of his errand. "I am Captain of the Guard to the Duke of Orleans," he explained, "and am desired by the Duke to seek an audience with her Majesty the Queen-Mother." "Are those your followers?" asked Belloc scornfully, pointing to the howling mob outside. Raoul returned no answer, but bit his lip deeply, while the other continued, "It is no fault of mine, M. Raoul Beauchamp, that you gain admittance to the Palace. But for the Queen's orders I would gladly send you back to your friends who make war so bravely--on a woman and a boy." "Your speech is a trifle unjust, M. Belloc," said Raoul; "I am a soldier, and cannot question the commands of my chief. As to my own feelings--well that is another matter," and with a studied bow he passed into the building. Meanwhile the mob was increasing in numbers and violence every moment, and, as the soldiers had received orders not to fire, the courtyard was soon filled with excited people who howled, and danced, and shouted for the King to be produced. Two or three times I glanced anxiously at Belloc, wondering how much longer his patience would last. "Open the doors," cried the foremost rioters; "we will enter and see for ourselves where the King is." "The King is in bed!" cried M. Belloc angrily. "Ah! at St. Germain!" shouted a fellow dressed like a street hawker, but whose voice I recognised, "We are betrayed!"