But the words, which would have been magic a week ago, fell now on deaf ears.

"Le jour de gloire est arrive."

The echo of the song rang out from the crowd.

They were in no listening and obedient mood just now.

Marcel Trouet's friends knew how to speak--and fever is infectious.

"Friends--ah! ah! foolish ones, listen----"

It was once more the piteous voice of old Koustak, but none heeded it.

They were crowding around the outer door.

"If they will but listen," groaned Jehan de Quernais--"if only for a minute."

Michael nodded.

"They may do so yet."

"Not if they succeed in entering the Manor. Their mood is dangerous--and--if Trouet declares that Denningham is Varenac----"

"We shall not live long to prove the contrary."

"And there are the women."

Michael's eyes flashed.

"I had not forgotten."

"If they will but listen. Hark! Morice is trying again. With Koustak beside him it is possible that they may be persuaded."

"If he has time."

"We must make time. There is the courtyard."

"And the outer gate is strong. The Manor was not built yesterday."

"Shall we come?"

"Immediately."

Without another word the two young men turned and hurried downstairs.

There was a chance still for the Cause.

It was Gabrielle's brother who stood in peril; also Gabrielle herself.

Thus each thought, and drew their pistols as they ran.

The men of Varenac had not expected resistance.

The firing of pistols as two of the most enthusiastic of their number scaled the wall was something of a shock. Who were these new enemies?

Marcel Trouet did not answer the question, but, from a safer distance, screamed to good citizens to advance.

Once more the double report of firearms rang out from behind the ivy.

There was some heavy cursing amongst the crowd.

Aha! They were cunning, those two on the other side, but they did not know Varenac as Meldroc Tirais did. That crumbling corner near where the wood was stacked was unknown to them.

"Aux armes, citoyens."

But the shout of triumph came too soon. Back from the gate ran Michael Berrington, swift as sleuth-hound on its prey, with sword drawn.

There was fighting now, at gate and breach, rare fighting too, enough to warm the heart of any man.

And Michael was in fighting vein--the Irish blood in him saw to that--and the grimmer the work the merrier grew his mood.

Hotspur Mike he had been called at college, and Hotspur Mike was he, in very truth, that night.

A Breton peasant is no coward when the humour is on him, and his temper roused for the combat, so work there was in plenty for Michael's blade.

Surely the fairies must have kissed his eyelids--so his enemies swore, as they drew back for a moment--for this man seemed to see as well in the darkness as by day.

But the breach in the wall was growing--and Gabrielle was at Kernak.

It was therefore no time for throwing away life, just because the fire of the fight ran l.u.s.tily in his veins.

"Back! back!" cried Michael, in English, and, sword in hand, ran back himself across the courtyard, even as a dozen st.u.r.dy peasants flung themselves at a scramble over the wall.

Count Jehan was not slow to obey the command, though he too had fought as la Rouerie's follower should fight.

"Fire! fire!" screamed Marcel Trouet, emptying his barrels into the darkness.

"Kill them--kill the vermin, before they run to ground. Mille diables!

Kill them, vile aristos."

But pistols were few amongst his followers, and, though men started quickly enough in pursuit, Michael and his companion had reached the porch first, and made haste to slip heavy bars across the oaken door before their adversaries flung themselves, cursing and yelling, against it from without. The situation promised to be a desperate one.

All hope that the mob would listen to their new lord was gone.

Monsieur le Marquis had come too late. What therefore remained?

Little enough, save to die, crying, "Vive le roi," "Vive Bretagne" in the face of these murderers of king and country. So Count Jehan thought.

But Michael found not the smallest consolation in such a prospect.