The noise drew our eyes in this direction; and there lolling in a window over the door, looking out on the street with a laughing eye, was Bezers himself.  The cause of his merriment—­we had not far to look for it—­was a horseman who was riding up the street under difficulties.  He was reining in his steed—­no easy task on that steep greasy pavement—­so as to present some front to a score or so of ragged knaves who were following close at his heels, hooting and throwing mud and pebbles at him.  The man had drawn his sword, and his oaths came up to us, mingled with shrill cries of “Vive la MESSE!” and half drowned by the clattering of the horse’s hoofs.  We saw a stone strike him in the face, and draw blood, and heard him swear louder than before.

“Oh!” cried Catherine, clasping her hands with a sudden shriek of indignation, “my letter!  They will get my letter!”

“Death!” exclaimed Croisette, “She is right!  It is M. de Pavannes’ courier!  This must be stopped!  We cannot stand this, Anne!”

“They shall pay dearly for it, by our Lady!” I cried swearing myself.  “And in peace time too—­the villains!  Gil!  Francis!” I shouted, “where are you?”

And I looked round for my fowling piece, while Croisette jumped on the wall, and forming a trumpet with his hands, shrieked at the top of his voice, “Back! he bears a letter from the Vicomte!”

But the device did not succeed, and I could not find my gun.  For a moment we were helpless, and before I could have fetched the gun from the house, the horseman and the hooting rabble at his heels, had turned a corner and were hidden by the roofs.

Another turn however would bring them out in front of the gateway, and seeing this we hurried down the ramp to meet them.  I stayed a moment to tell Gil to collect the servants, and, this keeping me, Croisette reached the narrow street outside before me.  As I followed him I was nearly knocked down by the rider, whose face was covered with, dirt and blood, while fright had rendered his horse unmanageable.  Darting aside I let him pass —­he was blinded and could not see me—­and then found that Croisette—­brave lad! had collared the foremost of the ruffians, and was beating him with his sheathed sword, while the rest of the rabble stood back, ashamed, yet sullen, and with anger in their eyes.  A dangerous crew, I thought; not townsmen, most of them.

“Down with the Huguenots!” cried one, as I appeared, one bolder than the rest.

“Down with the CANAILLE!” I retorted, sternly eyeing the ill-looking ring.  “Will you set yourselves above the king’s peace, dirt that you are?  Go back to your kennels!”

The words were scarcely out of my mouth, before I saw that the fellow whom Croisette was punishing had got hold of a dagger.  I shouted a warning, but it came too late.  The blade fell, and—­ thanks to God—­striking the buckle of the lad’s belt, glanced off harmless.  I saw the steel flash up again—­saw the spite in the man’s eyes:  but this time I was a step nearer, and before the weapon fell, I passed my sword clean through the wretch’s body.  He went down like a log, Croisette falling with him, held fast by his stiffening fingers.