When they burst in
at last, with a roar of "To the river! To the river!"--burst in a rush
of struggling shoulders and lowered pikes, they found him standing, a
solitary figure, on the further side of the table, his arms folded. And
the sight of the passive figure for a moment stayed them.
"Say your prayers, child of Satan!" cried the leader, waving his weapon.
"We give you one minute!"
"Ay, one minute!" his followers chimed in. "Be ready!"
"You would murder me?" he said with dignity. And when they shouted
assent, "Good!" he answered. "It is between you and M. de Biron, whose
guest I am. But"--with a glance which passed round the ring of glaring
eyes and working features--"I would leave a last word for some one. Is
there any one here who values a safe-conduct from the King? 'Tis for two
men coming and going for a fortnight." And he held up a slip of paper.
The leader cried, "To hell with his safe-conduct! Say your prayers!"
But all were not of his mind. On one or two of the savage faces--the
faces, for the most part, of honest men maddened by their wrongs--flashed
an avaricious gleam. A safe-conduct? To avenge, to slay, to kill--and
to go safe! For some minds such a thing has an invincible fascination. A
man thrust himself forward.
"Ay, I'll have it!" he cried.
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