“Can they have gone?” I asked. “Is it possible that not finding us they have returned to Dange?” “You forget,” said M. le Comte, grimly, “that single musket shot which almost reached one of us. Depend upon it, they know that we are here.” “For what are they waiting, then?” “They are preparing a plan of attack no doubt. They are trying to devise a way to get past that iron door down yonder. They know they have no cause to hurry.” Pasdeloup suddenly held up his hand. “Listen!” he said. For a moment I heard nothing--only the insect noises of the night; then from afar off came a sound as of bees swarming--a faint hum, vague, threatening, incomprehensible. Louder it grew and louder, swelling into a kind of roar, as though a great flood were sweeping toward us down the valley of the river. Then suddenly the roar burst forth in overpowering volume; it grew strident, articulate. Lights danced among the trees, and in a moment more a shrieking, cursing mob poured out upon the road, through the gates and over the lawn. “They have come,” said Pasdeloup, “the _canaille_ of Dange.” And he folded his arms calmly as he stared moodily down at them. CHAPTER X. BREAD UPON THE WATERS. ACROSS the lawn the mob poured like a foul and hideous flood, reeling in a kind of drunken frenzy, their voices mounting to demoniac screams now that their goal was in sight--waving their blazing brands above their heads, or shaking furiously such rude weapons as they possessed. And as I looked down at them I realized how thin and fragile is the veneer of civilization, product though it be of long and painful centuries. Here it had vanished at a breath. These creatures had reverted to the state of savages, and burned with the lust of blood and plunder. They were wolves indeed--and they were hunting in pack! “Why, there are women among them!” I cried; and indeed there were certain petticoated figures shrieking as madly as the rest, though there was nothing feminine in the frenzied countenances revealed by the red light of the torches. “The women are the worst of all,” said M. le Comte. “They devise tortures of a fiendishness beyond man’s ingenuity. They sit day after day watching the guillotine. They are never sated with blood.” But the mob had reached the terrace, had swept up over it like a tidal wave, and on into the house. Instantly pandemonium broke loose--the crash of breaking glass, of furniture riven asunder, of doors burst from their hinges. It seemed that in a breath the house itself must be destroyed, torn stone from stone, under that fierce assault. I saw madame shudder at thought of the havoc which was being wrought among the objects that she loved. “But where are the Blues?” I asked. “Will they stand by and permit this outrage?” “How could they stay it?” asked M. le Comte sadly. “They are powerless. They can do nothing. As well hope to stay the tide of the ocean.”