well wetted, waiting here in the rain.  No children hast thou hungry at home; only alabaster dolls, that weep not!  The traitress!  To the Lanterne!—­And so poor Louison Chabray, no asseveration or shrieks availing her, fair slim damsel, late in the arms of Royalty, has a garter round her neck, and furibund Amazons at each end; is about to perish so,—­when two Bodyguards gallop 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!