igher
about him. His one regret was that he had been so hasty in casting his
snuff box from him, for he was missing its familiar stimulus. At his
side the Marquis was fighting desperately, fencing with his left arm,
and in the hot excitement seeming oblivious of the pain his broken right
must be occasioning.

"It is ended, old friend," he groaned at last, to Des Cadoux. "I am
losing strength, and I shall be done for in a moment. The women," he
almost sobbed, "mon Dieu, the women!"

Des Cadoux felt his old eyes grow moist, and the odd, fierce mirth that
seemed to have hitherto infected him went out like a candle that
is snuffed. But suddenly before he could make any answer, a new and
unexpected sound, which dominated the din of combat, and seemed to cause
all--assailants and defenders alike--to pause that they might listen,
was wafted to their ears.

It was the roll of the drum. Not the mere thudding that had beaten the
step for the mob, but the steady and vigorous tattoo of many sticks upon
many skins.

"What is it? Who comes?" were the questions that men asked one another,
as both aristocrats and sansculottes paused in their bloody labours. It
was close at hand. So close at hand that they could discern the tramp
of marching feet. In the infernal din of that fight upon the stairs
they had not caught the sound of this approach until now that the
new-comers--whoever they might be--were at the very gates of Bellecour.

From the mob in the yard there came a sudden outcry. Men sprang to the
door of the Chateau and shouted to those within.

"Aux Armes," was the cry. "A nous, d nous!"

And in response to it the assailants turned tail, and dashed down the
stairs, overleaping the dead bodies that were piled upon them, and many
a man slipping in that shambles and ending the descent on his back. Out
into the courtyard they swept: leaving that handful of gentlemen, their
fine clothes disordered, splashed with blood and grimed with powder,
to question one another touching this portent, this miracle that seemed
wrought by Heaven for their salvation.

CHAPTER VI. THE CITIZEN COMMISSIONER

It was, after all, no miracle, unless the very timely arrival upon
the scene of a regiment of the line might be accepted in the light of
Heaven-directed. As a matter of fact, a rumour of the assault that was
to be made that night upon the Chateau de Bellecour had travelled as far
as Amiens, and there, that evening, it had reached t