Meanwhile those at the back of the far-spreading throng who, unable to hear, considered that there was too much parleying, waxed savage. Was an hour to be wasted over a simple negociation which should not occupy six minutes? The deputy from Blois was being cozened, was not displaying sufficient firmness, was reprehensively lacking in decision. The women backed up the men, and, convinced by their own cackle, were garrulous. They were unanimous as to storming the place, displaying to the world by a signal example that the people were the real masters whose will was to be obeyed. Then there was a sway, and a scuffle, and a hubbub, as those in front were pushed back as those behind, and the wooden gates revolved upon their hinges. The miscreants at last! Ah! Now for it! Every hand was eager to take part in the coming vengeance--the trio should be torn into such tiny shreds that they should seem to have vanished into air. There was a forward rush which recoiled upon itself. Those who pushed behind could not comprehend what was passing. Some twenty trembling women of the superior class, judging by their flaunting garments, were being marshalled two and two, and Jean Boulot at their head on horseback was exhorting the people to make way. A long, low, growl of angry disappointment swept like a wind over the concourse, which might have swelled into a menacing roar, followed by the mischief of a hurricane, if a diversion had not been caused by the forlorn appearance of the White Chatelaine of Lorge, moving with obvious effort supported by her faithful foster-sister. How changed she was--how sadly wrecked her beauty. Her big long-lashed blue eyes wore the startled look of one who has seen a horror--the pupils were prominent and fixed--her motion was that of an old old woman partly paralysed. Her haggard features bore an eloquent impress of what she had undergone, and there was a pathos in her wandering groping movement that drew sobs from many a breast. "There she is--there she is," passed from one to another in an awe-stricken whisper. "God bless her, poor martyr! The kindest, noblest woman in all the country round!" Some, remembering kindly acts, stooped to kiss her robe as she tottered by--a mother whose dying infant she had saved by timely help--a wife whose husband she had tended. It was well that Jean headed the cortège, exerting all his wit and his authority to force a safe passage for the timid cohort. There was a rough fellow with a cart of firewood, who, from his eminence, contemplated the spectacle, broadly grinning. He and his cart Jean requisitioned, and packed the more weakly in it, for it occurred to him that the progress to Lorge would be far from rapid, and that he was leaving a dangerous element behind. What an odd scene the open space in front of Montbazon presented when Jean and his cortège were out of sight.