up, indignantly dissipating; and rescue her. The miscredited Twelve
hasten back to the Chateau, for an 'answer in writing.'

Nay, behold, a new flight of Menads, with 'M. Brunout Bastille
Volunteer,' as impressed-commandant, at the head of it. These also will
advance to the Grate of the Grand Court, and see what is toward. Human
patience, in wet buckskins, has its limits. Bodyguard Lieutenant, M. de
Savonnieres, for one moment, lets his temper, long provoked, long pent,
give way. He not only dissipates these latter Menads; but caracoles
and cuts, or indignantly flourishes, at M. Brunout, the
impressed-commandant; and, finding great relief in it, even chases him;
Brunout flying nimbly, though in a pirouette manner, and now with sword
also drawn. At which sight of wrath and victory two other Bodyguards
(for wrath is contagious, and to pent Bodyguards is so solacing) do
likewise give way; give chase, with brandished sabre, and in the air
make horrid circles. So that poor Brunout has nothing for it but
to retreat with accelerated nimbleness, through rank after rank;
Parthian-like, fencing as he flies; above all, shouting lustily, "On
nous laisse assassiner, They are getting us assassinated?"

Shameful! Three against one! Growls come from the Lecointrian ranks;
bellowings,--lastly shots. Savonnieres' arm is raised to strike: the
bullet of a Lecointrian musket shatters it; the brandished sabre jingles
down harmless. Brunout has escaped, this duel well ended: but the wild
howl of war is everywhere beginning to pipe!

The Amazons recoil; Saint-Antoine has its cannon pointed (full of
grapeshot); thrice applies the lit flambeau; which thrice refuses to
catch,--the touchholes are so wetted; and voices cry: "Arretez, il n'est
pas temps encore, Stop, it is not yet time!" (Deux Amis, iii. 192-201.)
Messieurs of the Garde-du-Corps, ye had orders not to fire; nevertheless
two of you limp dismounted, and one war-horse lies slain. Were it not
well to draw back out of shot-range; finally to file off,--into the
interior? If in so filing off, there did a musketoon or two discharge
itself, at these armed shopkeepers, hooting and crowing, could man
wonder? Draggled are your white cockades of an enormous size; would to
Heaven they were got exchanged for tricolor ones! Your buckskins are
wet, your hearts heavy. Go, and return not!

The Bodyguards file off, as we hint; giving and receiving shots; drawing
no life-blood; leaving boundless indi