He knew what he had done, then. Before his horse's iron shoes struck the
ground again, his face--even his face--had lost its colour. But he knew
also that to hesitate now, to pause now, was to be torn in pieces; for
his riders, seeing that which the banner had veiled from him, had not
followed him, and he was alone, in the middle of brandished fists and
weapons. He hesitated not a moment. Drawing a pistol, he spurred
onwards, his horse plunging wildly among the shrieking priests; and
though a hundred hands, hands of acolytes, hands of shaven monks,
clutched at his bridle or gripped his boot, he got clear of them. Clear,
carrying with him the memory of one face seen an instant amid the crowd,
one face seen, to be ever remembered--the face of Father Pezelay, white,
evil, scarred, distorted by wicked triumph.
Behind him, the thunder of "Sacrilege! Sacrilege!" rose to Heaven, and
men were gathering. In front the crowd which skirmished about the inn
was less dense, and, ignorant of the thing that had happened in the
narrow street, made ready way for him, the boldest recoiling before the
look on his face. Some who stood nearest to the inn, and had begun to
hurl stones at the window and to beat on the doors--which had only the
minute before closed on Badelon and his prisoners--supposed that he had
his riders behind him; and these fled apace. But he knew better even
than they the value of time; he pushed his horse up to the gates, and
hammered them with his boot while be kept his pistol-hand towards the
Place and the cathedral, watching for the transformation which he knew
would come!
And come it did; on a sudden, in a twinkling! A white-faced monk, frenzy
in his eyes, appeared in the midst of the crowd. He stood and tore his
garments before the people, and, stooping, threw dust on his head. A
second and a third followed his example; then from a thousand throats the
cry of "Sacrilege! Sacrilege!" rolled up, while clerks flew wildly
hither and thither shrieking the tale, and priests denied the Sacraments
to Angers until it should purge itself of the evil thing.
By that time Count Hannibal had saved himself behind the great gates, by
the skin of his teeth. The gates had opened to him in time. But none
knew better than he that Angers had no gates thick enough, nor walls of a
height, to save him for many hours from the storm he had let loose!