He struck the fellow down, and, with a reckless word, rode
headlong into the procession, shouting to the black robes to make way,
make way! A cry, nay, a shriek of horror, answered him and rent the air.
And in a minute the thing was done. Too late, as the Bishop's Vicar,
struck by his horse, fell screaming under its hoofs--too late, as the
consecrated vessels which he had been bearing rolled in the mud, Tavannes
saw that they bore the canopy and the Host!
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.
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