To this martial array is added the clamour of drums, trumpets, and warlike instruments, accompanied with no end of benedictions, _Oremus_, and chanted psalms. At the head of the troops is a bishop, metamorphosed into a commander. He moves very slowly, by reason of his corpulence, and the weight of the armour he wears, and looks like a dilapidated St. George, minus the dragon. Then come Carthusians, Begging Friars, Capuchins, and Seminarists, each different order led by their abbot or prior. They all advance gravely with the orthodox goose-step. Cries of "Down with the Regent!" "Death to Mazarin!" "_A bas_ the Italian beggar!" "Long live the Union!" "_Vive la Duchesse!_" "_Vive la Fronde!_" add to the clamour of the martial music and the psalms. Mademoiselle de Rosny is fain to hold both her ears, notwithstanding all the sweet things her companion is whispering. The mob of Paris _en masse_ is assembled to witness this extraordinary review, and to rejoice in the unexpected aid contributed by the Church in the general emergency. Nor is M. d'Aumale's the only coach on the Quai Notre-Dame that day; many other possessors of such vehicles have been attracted by the scene. The Legate is among the number. The crowd is immense, the applause enthusiastic. "_Ciel!_" calls out Mademoiselle de Rosny, on a sudden. "Look—Oh, look! Monsieur d'Aumale, you have deceived me, I am sure. They are going to fire!" "No, no," replies D'Aumale, "believe me, you are mistaken. 'Give the monk his rosary, the soldier his sword,' says the motto. _Messieurs les moines_ will not venture to burn their hands in attempting to handle firearms." "But I tell you," cries the lady, "they are going to fire! Good heavens, the guns are all turned this way! Oh, D'Aumale, we shall be murdered. Help! help! I implore you!" And she catches hold of him, and begins to scream after the most approved fashion preparatory to a fit of hysterics. D'Aumale looks out of the window. "In the name of Heaven, beware—beware!" he shouts to the priests. But in the confusion his voice is inaudible. The ecclesiastical artillerymen, awkward and inexperienced, have already lighted the matches, and the cannon, which were loaded, explode right and left in the crowd. A fearful cry arises from the Legate's coach. "Thank Heaven, D'Aumale, we have escaped,—this time at least," gasps Mademoiselle de Rosny in a low voice, for she is now calmed by excessive fear. "Yes, but I fancy some one else has been seriously wounded. I will alight and see," says D'Aumale, unfastening the door.