“All right, I think,” I answered.  I was breathless.

“You are not hurt?”

“Not touched!”

I had just time then to draw my sword before the assailants streamed into the room, a dozen ruffians, reeking and tattered, with flushed faces and greedy, staring eyes.  Once inside, however, suddenly—­so suddenly that an idle spectator might have found the change ludicrous—­they came to a stop.  Their wild cries ceased, and tumbling over one another with curses and oaths they halted, surveying us in muddled surprise; seeing what was before them, and not liking it.  Their leader appeared to be a tall butcher with a pole-axe on his half-naked shoulder; but there were among them two or three soldiers in the royal livery and carrying pikes.  They had looked for victims only, having met with no resistance at the gate, and the foremost recoiled now on finding themselves confronted by the muzzle of the arquebuse and the lighted match.

I seized the occasion.  I knew, indeed, that the pause presented our only chance, and I sprang on a chair and waved my hand for silence.  The instinct of obedience for the moment asserted itself; there was a stillness in the room.

“Beware!” I cried loudly—­as loudly and confidently as I could, considering that there was a quaver at my heart as I looked on those savage faces, which met and yet avoided my eye.  “Beware of what you do!  We are Catholics one and all like yourselves, and good sons of the Church.  Ay, and good subjects too!  Vive le Roi, gentlemen!  God save the King!  I say.”  And I struck the barricade with my sword until the metal rang again.  “God save the King!”

“Cry vive la MESSE!” shouted one.

“Certainly, gentlemen!” I replied, with politeness.  “With all my heart.  Vive la MESSE!  Vive la MESSE!”

This took the butcher, who luckily was still sober, utterly aback.  He had never thought of this.  He stared at us as if the ox he had been about to fell had opened its mouth and spoken, and grievously at a loss, he looked for help to his companions.

Later in the day, some Catholics were killed by the mob.  But their deaths as far as could be learned afterwards were due to private feuds.  Save in such cases—­and they were few—­the cry of vive la MESSE! always obtained at least a respite:  more easily of course in the earlier hours of the morning when the mob were scarce at ease in their liberty to kill, while killing still seemed murder, and men were not yet drunk with bloodshed.

I read the hesitation of the gang in their faces:  and when one asked roughly who we were, I replied with greater boldness, “I am M. Anne de Caylus, nephew to the Vicomte de Caylus, Governor, under the King, of Bayonne and the Landes!” This I said with what majesty I could.  “And these” I continued—­“are my brothers.  You will harm us at your peril, gentlemen.  The Vicomte, believe me, will avenge every hair of our heads.”