“A thing agreed upon that you should burn my house!” vociferated D’Artagnan, snatching the brand from the hand of the incendiary, and striking him with it across the face. The second wanted to assist his comrade, but Raoul, seizing him by the middle, threw him out of the window, whilst D’Artagnan pushed his man down the stairs. Raoul, first disengaged, tore the burning wainscoting down, and threw it flaming into the chamber. At a glance D’Artagnan saw there was nothing to be feared from the fire, and sprang to the window. The disorder was at its height. The air was filled with simultaneous cries of “To the fire!” “To the death!” “To the halter!” “To the stake!” “Vive Colbert!” “Vive le roi!” The group which had forced the culprits from the hands of the archers had drawn close to the house, which appeared to be the goal towards which they dragged them. Menneville was at the head of this group, shouting louder than all the others, “To the fire! to the fire! Vive Colbert!” D’Artagnan began to comprehend what was meant. They wanted to burn the condemned, and his house was to serve as a funeral pile. “Halt, there!” cried he, sword in hand, and one foot upon the window. “Menneville, what do you want to do?” “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” cried the latter; “give way, give way!” “To the fire! to the fire with the thieves! Vive Colbert!” These cries exasperated D’Artagnan. “Mordioux!” said he. “What! burn the poor devils who are only condemned to be hung? that is infamous!” Before the door, however, the mass of anxious spectators, rolled back against the walls, had become more thick, and closed up the way. Menneville and his men, who were dragging along the culprits, were within ten paces of the door. Menneville made a last effort. “Passage! passage!” cried he, pistol in hand. “Burn them! burn them!” repeated the crowd. “The Image-de-Notre-Dame is on fire! Burn the thieves! burn the monopolists in the Image-de-Notre-Dame!” There now remained no doubt, it was plainly D’Artagnan’s house that was their object. D’Artagnan remembered the old cry, always so effective from his mouth: “A moi! mousquetaires!” shouted he, with the voice of a giant, with one of those voices which dominate over cannon, the sea, the tempest. “A moi! mousquetaires!” And suspending himself by the arm from the balcony, he allowed himself to drop amidst the crowd, which began to draw back from a house that rained men. Raoul was on the ground as soon as he, both sword in hand. All the musketeers on the Place heard that challenging cry—all turned round at that cry, and recognized D’Artagnan. “To the captain, to the captain!” cried they, in their turn. And the crowd opened before them as though before the prow of a vessel. At that moment D’Artagnan and Menneville found themselves face to face. “Passage, passage!” cried Menneville, seeing that he was within an arm’s length of the door. “No one passes here,” said D’Artagnan.