hed a long brand and raised the cry of "Burn him up!"
Others sprang forward to do the same, and fought for the blazing pieces,
but Cliquet bounded down the steps and knocked the matted-hair man down.

"Curse you!" he shouted. "You will spoil the whole business. You don't
know how many good things are in there for us."

Dominique returned from the servants. "They are well arranged for," said
he.

Cyrene tremblingly caught Germain's arm, excited with a new idea. "To
the old chateau! not a moment to lose!" she cried, and seizing Lecour by
the arm hurried him into the passage which communicated between the new
mansion on land and the ancient one in the lake, while Dominique
followed. Half-way across was a decayed wooden door, which once had
done duty as a gate behind the portcullis. They shut and bolted this
with all speed, and then turned to look round them. The crash of the
main door falling and the shout of the mob which followed, penetrated to
their retreat.

"We have plenty of powder and pistols," Dominique exclaimed; "there is
the armoury just at our backs."

The armoury, in truth, was close at hand and in it an ample selection of
old-fashioned weapons.

"Let us place this to command the passage," Germain said, touching a
bronze cannon, after they had taken some pistols and powder.

"Very good, my General," Dominique assented excitedly, and pushing the
rusty trunnion they got it into position. It was an ornate affair, which
had been for centuries discharged by the de Bailleuls on the birthdays
of the family. Cyrene had the good judgment to remain in the armoury.

It was several hours before they were discovered. The reason, as they
concluded by listening at the door in the passage, was the exploring of
the wine-cellars by the besiegers, under the guidance of Cliquet. Blows,
shouts, and crashes indicated numerous acts of destruction. Inevitably,
however, they were at last found out by Cliquet himself, who could not
forego the delights of revenge. He came to the wooden door.

"Baptism, dame, I have you now, you cursed young white-gill!" cried he.
"Break it in, my boys, smash, hack. We'll roast _him_ in place of his
parchments--the man who will make parchments of our skins."

Lecour ran back to take a moment's glance at Cyrene. She was kneeling at
prayer. He withdrew, grasped his pistols with renewed determination, and
stood at his post.

Lecour and Dominique were quite ready--the latter with his fuse, the
f