"Kill! Kill!" cried his followers, cutting the air with their swords, and
rolling to and fro on their horses in drunken emulation. "Bleed in
August, bleed in May!"
"On! On!" cried the leader, as the crowd which beset the house fled
every way before his reckless onset. "Bleed in August, bleed in May!"
The rabble fled, but not so quickly but that one or two were ridden down,
and this for an instant checked the riders. Before they could pass on-"Ohe!" cried Count Hannibal from his window. "Ohe!" with a shout of
laughter, "ride over them, dear brother! Make me a clean street for my
wedding!"
Marshal Tavannes--for he, the hero of Jarnac, was the leader of this wild
orgy--turned that way, and strove to rein in his horse.
"What ails them?" he cried, as the maddened animal reared upright, its
iron hoofs striking fire from the slippery pavement.
"They are rearing like thy Bayard!" Count Hannibal answered. "Whip them,
whip them for me! Tavannes! Tavannes!"
"What? This canaille?"
"Ay, that canaille!"
"Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!" the Marshal replied, and
spurred his horse among the rabble, who had fled to the sides of the
street and now strove hard to efface themselves against the walls.
"Begone, dogs; begone!" he cried, still hunting them. And then, "You
would bite, would you?" And snatching another pistol from his boot, he
fired it among them, careless whom he hit. "Ha! ha! That stirs you,
does it!" he continued, as the wretches fled headlong. "Who touches my
brother, touches Tavannes! On! On!"
Suddenly, from a doorway near at hand, a sombre figure darted into the
roadway, caught the Marshal's rein, and for a second checked his course.
The priest--for a priest it was, Father Pezelay, the same who had
addressed the mob--held up a warning hand.
"Halt!" he cried, with burning eyes. "Halt, my lord! It is written,
thou shalt not spare the Canaanitish woman. 'Tis not to spare the King
has given command and a sword, but to kill! 'Tis not to harbour, but to
smite! To smite!"
"Then smite I will!" the Marshal retorted, and with the butt of his
pistol struck the zealot down. Then, with as much indifference as he
would have treated a Huguenot, he spurred his horse over him, with a mad
laugh at his jest. "Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!" he
yelled. "Touches Tavannes! On! On! Bleed in August, bleed in May!"
"On!" shouted his followers, striking about them in the same desperate
fashion. They were young nobles who had spent the night feasting at the
Palace, and, drunk with wine and mad with excitement, had left the Louvre
at daybreak to rouse the city. "A Jarnac! A Jarnac!" they cried, and
some saluted Count Hannibal as they passed. And so, shouting and
spurring and following their leader, they swept away down the now empty
street, carrying terror and a flame wherever their horses bore them that
morning.