They laughed loudly in reply, and, emboldened by this, there was another rush, and Badehorn was almost pulled from his saddle. Inch by inch, however, we made our way somehow, taking advantage of every foot of space that was given, and clearing the path by sweeping the flats of our swords to the right and left. But this could not go on for long, and we were scarce a hand’s breadth from the most deadly peril when, in a momentary pause, I called out: “Fools! Are you mad that you listen to an angry woman and try to hinder us who ride for Her Majesty the Queen-Mother! Way! Way! Else beware the _carcan_ and the lash!” The boldness with which I said this had some effect; the crowd hesitated a little, yet still we were not safe, and they were preparing to launch themselves on us again when a low murmur caught our ears, and arrested those about us, a murmur that increased in volume and intensity until it became a deep, hoarse roar. “The patient! The patient! He comes!” In one moment we were utterly forgotten. In one moment we were safe. In the absorbing interest before them the mob let us drop as an ape drops an empty nutshell, and pressed forward with mad strugglings and fierce yells toward the scaffoldings. Far within the choking, gasping mass some one began to sing that terrible death song, which has rung in the ears of so many martyrs of the faith: “_Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère. Faites en justice! Dieu l’a permis_,” and the crowd caught the verse and gave it back, so that shout and scream died away; but in their room swelled the pitiless chorus, as the multitude marched to the lilt of the tune, forming in line, as it were, of their own accord, and beating time to the measure with their feet as they rolled along the long quay in an endless column. Men, women, and children in that vast assemblage had all gone mad. They marched arm-in-arm, singing their dolorous hymn, some with white faces, others with bloodshot cheeks; but one and all with eager eyes straining before them, and one and all drunk with the wild music of their chant. In the distance I saw our artisan, he whom I thought had something of pity in his heart; but he, too, had caught the nameless infection, and with head thrown back and staring eyes was singing with the rest, while at his side marched his wife, and her shrill, hard voice rose piercing and high: “_Au feu! Au feu! C’est leur repère!_” “_C’est leur repère!_” bellowed the echoing mob, as it swung past us to see a martyr die. We waited to see no more. Our hearts were already sick enough, and, seizing the opportunity given to us, passed through the gates, and took our way to the house of Cipierre, over the uneven and still slippery cobble-stones of the ill-paved Rue Royale. “If I live a hundred years, I shall never forget to-day,” said Marcilly, as we rode together side by side. “And yet we have actually seen nothing. Still, I agree with you. I have never felt the horror that I felt to-day.”