His sword was in his hand as he descended the two steps to the level of the street and began to force his way along between the houses and the crowd. It was not easy at first. One sprang at him blindly to stop him, but he thrust him aside; another drew his dagger, but Gilbert struck him on temple and jaw with his flat blade so that he fell in a heap; and presently the man who was sober was feared by the drunken men, and they made little resistance. But many saw by the torchlight that the hooded figure of a woman was gliding along beside him, and foul jests were screamed out, with howls and catcalls, so that the clean Norman blood longed to turn and face the whole throng together with edge and thrust, to be avenged of insult. Yet Gilbert remembered that if he did that, he might be slain, leaving Eleanor to the mercy of ruffians who would not believe that she was the Queen. So he resigned himself and went steadily on along the wall, forcing his opponents out of his way, striking them, stunning them, knocking them down mercilessly, but killing none. The time had been short from the beginning of the trouble till Gilbert reached the turning for which he was making. And all the while the high, brazen voice was chanting the words of the Canticle, above the roaring confusion. When Eleanor, safe at last, slipped into the shadows beyond the corner, the voice was singing, "He hath visited and redeemed his people," and far up the street the red-cross banner was waving furiously in the glare of the torchlight. As Gilbert sheathed his sword, Eleanor laid her hand on his. "You please me," she said; and though there was no light, he knew by her tone that she was smiling. "Thank you," she added softly. "Ask what you will, it is yours." In the dark he bent down and kissed the hand that held him. "Madam," he said, "I thank Heaven that I have been allowed to serve a woman in need." "And you ask nothing of me?" There was an odd little chill in her voice as she spoke. Gilbert did not answer at once, for he was uncertain whether to press her with a question about Beatrix, or to ask nothing. "If I asked anything," he said at last, "I should ask that I might understand your Grace, and why you bade me come in haste to one who is not even with you." They were within a few steps of the abbey, and the Queen separated a little from him and walked nearer to the wall. Then she stopped short. "Good-night," she said abruptly. Gilbert came close to her and stood still in silence. "Well?" She uttered the single word with a somewhat cold interrogation. "Madam," said Gilbert, suddenly determined to know the truth, "is Beatrix here with you or not? I have a right to know." "A right?" There was no mistaking the tone now, but Gilbert was not awed by it. "Yes," he answered; "you know I have."