"Is he ill?"

"He--"

"Is he ill, sirrah?" Tavannes roared. And while all bowed before the
lightning of his eye, no man at the table knew what had roused the sudden
tempest. But Bigot knew, who stood by the door, and whose ear, keen as
his master's, had caught the distant report of a musket shot. "If he be
not ill," Tavannes continued, rising and looking round the table in
search of signs of guilt, "and there be foul play here, and he the
player, the Bishop's own hand shall not save him! By Heaven it shall
not! Nor yours!" he continued, looking fiercely at Montsoreau. "Nor
your master's!"

The Lieutenant-Governor sprang to his feet. "M. le Comte," he stammered,
"I do not understand this language! Nor this heat, which may be real or
not! All I say is, if there be foul play here--"

"If!" Tavannes retorted. "At least, if there be, there be gibbets too!
And I see necks!" he added, leaning forward. "Necks!" And then, with a
look of flame, "Let no man leave this table until I return," he cried,
"or he will have to deal with me. Nay," he continued, changing his tone
abruptly, as the prudence, which never entirely left him--and perhaps the
remembrance of the other's fifty spearmen--sobered him in the midst of
his rage, "I am hasty. I mean not you, M. de Montsoreau! Ride where you
will; ride with me, if you will, and I will thank you. Only remember,
until midnight Angers is mine!"

He was still speaking when he moved from the table, and, leaving all
staring after him, strode down the room. An instant he paused on the
threshold and looked back; then he passed out, and clattered down the
stone stairs. His horse and riders were waiting, but, his foot in the
stirrup, he stayed for a word with Bigot.

"Is it so?" he growled.

The Norman did not speak, but pointed towards the Place Ste.-Croix,
whence an occasional shot made answer for him.

In those days the streets of the Black City were narrow and crooked,
overhung by timber houses, and hampered by booths; nor could Tavannes
from the old Town Hall--now abandoned--see the Place Ste.-Croix. But
that he could cure. He struck spurs to his horse, and, followed by his
ten horsemen, he clattered noisily down the paved street. A dozen groups
hurrying the same way sprang panic-stricken to the walls, or saved
themselves in doorways. He was up with them, he was beyond them! Another
hundred yards, and he would see the Place.

And then, with a cry of rage, he