One stout iron bar still held its place.  And this I watched as if fascinated.  I was alone in the empty courtyard, standing a little aside, sheltered by one of the stone pillars from which the gates hung.  Behind me the door of the house stood ajar.  Candles, which the daylight rendered garish, still burned in the rooms on the first floor, of which the tall narrow windows were open.  On the wide stone sill of one of these stood Croisette, a boyish figure, looking silently down at me, his hand on the latticed shutter.  He looked pale, and I nodded and smiled at him.  I felt rather anger than fear myself; remembering, as the fiendish cries half-deafened me, old tales of the Jacquerie and its doings, and how we had trodden it out.

Suddenly the din and tumult flashed to a louder note; as when hounds on the scent give tongue at sight.  I turned quickly from the house, recalled to a sense of the position and peril.  The iron bar was yielding to the pressure.  Slowly the left wing of the gate was sinking inwards.  Through the widening chasm I caught a glimpse of wild, grimy faces and bloodshot eyes, and heard above the noise a sharp cry from Croisette—­a cry of terror.  Then I turned and ran, with a defiant gesture and an answering yell, right across the forecourt and up the steps to the door.

I ran the faster for the sharp report of a pistol behind me, and the whirr of a ball past my ear.  But I was not scared by it:  and as my feet alighted with a bound on the topmost step, I glanced back.  The dogs were halfway across the court.  I made a bungling attempt to shut and lock the great door—­failed in this; and heard behind me a roar of coarse triumph.  I waited for no more.  I darted up the oak staircase four steps at a time, and rushed into the great drawing-room on my left, banging the door behind me.

The once splendid room was in a state of strange disorder.  Some of the rich tapestry had been hastily torn down.  One window was closed and shuttered; no doubt Croisette had done it.  The other two were open—­as if there had not been time to close them—­and the cold light which they admitted contrasted in ghastly fashion with the yellow rays of candles still burning in the sconces.  The furniture had been huddled aside or piled into a barricade, a CHEVAUX de FRISE of chairs and tables stretching across the width of the room, its interstices stuffed with, and its weakness partly screened by, the torn-down hangings.  Behind this frail defence their backs to a door which seemed to lead to an inner room, stood Marie and Croisette, pale and defiant.  The former had a long pike; the latter levelled a heavy, bell-mouthed arquebuse across the back of a chair, and blew up his match as I entered.  Both had in addition procured swords.  I darted like a rabbit through a little tunnel left on purpose for me in the rampart, and took my stand by them.

“Is all right?” ejaculated Croisette turning to me nervously.