From all, gentle or simple, rose the same cry for blood, the same
aspiration to be first equipped for the fray. In one corner a man of
rank stood silent and apart, his hand on his sword, the working of his
face alone betraying the storm that reigned within. In another, a Norman
horse-dealer talked in low whispers with two thieves. In a third, a gold-
wire drawer addressed an admiring group from the Sorbonne; and meantime
the middle of the floor grew into a seething mass of muttering, scowling
men, through whom the last comers, thrust as they might, had much ado to
force their way.
And from all under the low ceiling rose a ceaseless hum, though none
spoke loud. "Kill! kill! kill!" was the burden; the accompaniment such
profanities and blasphemies as had long disgraced the Paris pulpits, and
day by day had fanned the bigotry--already at a white heat--of the
Parisian populace. Tignonville turned sick as he listened, and would
fain have closed his ears. But for his life he dared not. And presently
a cripple in a beggar's garb, a dwarfish, filthy creature with matted
hair, twitched his sleeve, and offered him a whetstone.
"Are you sharp, noble sir?" he asked, with a leer. "Are you sharp? It's
surprising how the edge goes on the bone. A cut and thrust? Well, every
man to his taste.
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