The clock had sounded the first hour of morning from the church in the quarter of St. Antoine. Just before sinking below the horizon the moon still shed enough light to brighten with a fringe of silver the topmost battlement of the two high towers that defend the gate of St. Antoine, towards which Etienne Marcel was wending his way accompanied by the councilman Philip Giffart and Jocelyn, and holding two keys in his hands. The other magistrates and a group of their partisans had posted themselves, at the request of the provost, in a house near the ramparts. The profoundest silence reigned near a wide and dark vaulted passage that led to the gate of the city. A man leading a horse by the bridle followed Marcel at a little distance. "This is the decisive moment," Marcel was saying to his companions. "If Charles the Wicked has come to our rendezvous, we then have a chance of success ... if not, I shall mount that horse and ride to Charenton to deliver myself to the Regent!" Hardly had Marcel finished pronouncing these words when two sentinels, posted outside the dark passage which he was about to enter, called out: "Montjoie, the King and Duke!" and almost at the same moment appeared John Maillart stepping forward. At the sight of his old friend, whose infamous treason he was now acquainted with, Marcel stopped indignant and the following exchange of words took place: "Marcel," said the councilman in an imperious voice, "Marcel, what business brings you here at this hour? You should now be at the town-hall!" "What business is that of yours," answered Marcel. "I am here to guard the safety of the town, whose government is in my hands." "By God!" cried Maillart imperceptibly drawing nearer to Marcel. "By God! You cannot be here for anything good!" and turning to the two sentinels who stood motionless a few steps off: "You see it; Marcel holds in his hands the keys of the gate.... It is to betray us!" "You miserable and abominable scamp," cried Marcel, "you lie in your throat!" "No, traitor, it is you who lie!" replied Maillart, and suddenly raising a short axe that he had held concealed behind his back, he leaped with one bound at the provost crying: "To me, my friends! Death to Marcel! Death to him and his partisans! They are all traitors!" Before Jocelyn or Philip Giffart could foresee and parry the sudden charge, Maillart dealt so furious a blow at Marcel's head that he staggered and fell bathed in blood.