We were soon in the crowd below, making our way towards the audience hall; but our progress was not rapid, for time after time a mask or a group of hooded revellers stopped us; but with light words and merry jests we put them aside, and descending the steps entered the great hall. Here the crowd was so great that we were barely able to move; but at last we reached a pillar, on the base of which I placed my charge, and, standing beside her, we looked here, there, and everywhere for the Queen and De Lorgnac. "I do not see them," whispered mademoiselle. "'Tis like searching for a needle in sand; but, if I mistake not, Madame de Poitiers will prove a magnet. Let us keep our eyes there." With this I pointed before me towards the upper end of the hall, where a large empty space was reserved for dancing, though for the present the music had ceased, and the musicians were seated idle in the galleries above. Beyond this space was a dais, surmounted by a canopy of pale blue silk, spangled with the silver crescents of Diane de Poitiers. Behind the dais ran a huge buffet, many stages in height, rich with matchless plate, and in the centre was a sword, an enormous cross-hilted sword, said to be the Joyeuse of Charlemagne. On each side of the dais stood the two hundred gentlemen of the King's house in violet and gold, the bright steel blades of the battle-axes they bore on their shoulders reflecting back the light in dazzling rays, and immediately in front stood the herald Montjoy with his trumpeters. Although every soul in the crowd wore a mask and hood there were many on the dais who wore no disguise, and amongst these was the King. Henri was clad in white, with a white plume in his cap, in memory of the day years ago when, arrayed in white armour, he had ridden the lists at Fontainebleau in honour of Diane, and borne her arms to victory. Near him was Laval, the gallant Bois-Dauphin, who ran the King hard in that gentle day, and, but for the short splintering of a lance, might have been declared the victor. He too was clad in memory of the day, all in scarlet, with a phoenix for his crest--the arms of Claude de Foix. For the moment he was engaged in talk with a brilliant cavalier, the Bayard of his age, Francis, Marquis de Vieilleville.