But under the stormy canopy of the sky the spell was broken.

"We'll help you, citizen Vallon. Let's to the château!" was the universal slogan.

"But first of all for Talon!"

The cry came from André. It was harsh and cruel like that of a young tiger scenting its prey. They others did not quite understand.

"Talon? Why Talon?"

"Because," André said, "such an abominable deed could never have been carried out without the aid of Hector Talon."

Why indeed Talon? Because he was the man whom André hated only one degree less than the people up at the château. Why Talon? Because André had a longing to see him dragged here by the heels through the dust and to see his yellow eyes turn glassy with the agony of deathly terror. Talon the hypocrite! The mealy-mouthed sycophant!

"Who will go and fetch Talon?"

There were any number of them there willing enough to start the day's work by baiting Talon. They went off in a body to fetch him. They dragged him out of his house. Pushed along, heckled and jostled, they brought him to the scene of the disaster, face to face with André Vallon.

They had dragged him along, and he had come, and on the way he had mapped out his line of action. Not without due deliberation had he planned the monstrous outrage, nor without due regard to the consequences, unpleasant to himself, that might ensue. He had foreseen the rage of these people, their lust for revenge; he had reckoned on their passions as a lever for finally persuading Marigny to emigrate. He had even been prepared for a certain measure of danger to himself - danger which he would know how to combat. But what he had not reckoned on was the death of Marianne Vallon.

Nevertheless, he faced the crowd boldly. Whatever terror he felt he did not let them see; nor did he flinch when André, towering above him, laid such a heavy hand on his shoulder that his knees gave way under him.

"So there you are, Citizen Talon," André apostrophized him coolly. "I suppose you know who I am?"

Talon looked up at the young face, dark and distorted with fury, and blinked his yellow eyes.

"How should I not know you, Citizen Vallon?" he said smoothly. "I have known you ever since-"

"Ever since you had me whipped for killing your brute of a dog, eh?"

"That is past history, Citizen Vallon," Talon said jocosely; "you are a man now."

"While you have remained a worm," André retorted: "such a worm that I have a mind to tread on your face, just for the pleasure of seeing you wriggle."

The men laughed, but Talon did not flinch. He even contrived to shrug and to smile. He was clever enough to know that a bold face and an arrogant air would be his best safeguard against aggression. Some of these men here - the rougher ones - were his friends. They knew him to be a man of influence. They had listened to his oratory outside the village taverns and had heard men in high places speak of Citizen Talon as a good patriot. And Talon knew that they would not dare touch him, even though André Vallon, the savage young brute, did his level best to incite them to murder. He kept up his jaunty air, and, only pulling a wry face, he said indulgently:

"You were always good at jesting, Citizen Vallon."

"I am not jesting now," André rejoined. "i want to know who gave the order for this abominable outrage."

"You mean the firing of the cottages?"

"Who ordered it? Tell us! Speak, why don't you? Speak, or I'll tear the words out of your filthy throat."

Talon put up his hands and gazed at André with an air of innocence.

"Easy! easy! my friend," he said, "how should I know?"

"You are Marigny's menial - you must know...."

"Then if you've made up your mind..."

"It was Marigny who gave the order?"

"I don't know," Talon protested. "I swear I don't know."

"You lie!"

Talon shrugged his lean shoulders.

"You lie, I say," André reiterated roughly. "Speak the truth, man," he went on more calmly, "it will be better for you. The aristo gave the order, is that it?"

But Talon would admit nothing. He knew nothing, he declared: vowed that he could not believe Marigny capable of such a thing. As for himself, he knew nothing. Nothing. He had been more shocked, more distressed than anyone when he first heard of the disaster.

"Lies! lies!" André retorted roughly. "Shall we to the château, citizens, and find out the truth for ourselves?"

A murmur of assent went the round. The truth? Why! they all knew the truth. André had known it all along, from the moment when he saw his mother lying dead and that awful red mist rose before his eyes. Marigny! It was Marigny who had done this loathsome deed. Murder, deliberate and most foul, lay at the door of that arrogant man up there, who, like his kindred and his king, had not yet learned that the people would no longer bow the neck to the yoke of their pride and their tyranny. Well, he, at any rate, would be taught a lesson that day: he would be made to mourn with tears of blood the deadly wrong which he had committed. He and his brood! Let them look to themselves! Men and women had gone to the guillotine for less, had watered their marble floors with bitter tears for crimes which were as venial sins compared to this morning's outrage.

Already the crowd had begun to move in the direction of the château; they had all been impatient enough to go. What cared they if the aristo "up there" were guilty or not? They wanted to march, to shout, to threaten, as others had done in Paris and Versailles. In the far distance from over the mountains came, from time to time, the dull rumbling sound of thunder; occasional flashes of lightning lit up the heavy storm clouds with a weird purple light. The air grew hotter and more oppressive every moment, but they all wanted to be up and doing - the storm was finding an echo in their hearts.

"To the château, André!" they said. "We'll help you in your revenge."

Talon made feeble efforts at protest.

"And you come with us, Citizen Talon," André concluded grimly.

Tarbot and Molé took Talon by the elbows. There was a general movement along the road. Men, women, children: they all joined in the procession. The men, earnest and determined; the women, bitterly vindictive; the children, innocently curious. There were fourscore of them at least, fourscore bent on demanding reprisals for an unparalleled wrong.

And André, silent and absorbed, with eyes aglow and mouth set, saw, through a veil of red, a woman's face with large, innocent eyes and soft fair hair - a woman, just a girl, in a rose-coloured silk which made her seem like a flower bud. He hadn't seen her for many years. She must be a woman now.

Bah! what had he to do with women, and visions of women seen through a mist the colour of blood? The one woman in the world he had ever cared for lay stiff and stark now, silent in her ruined home. And all that misery, all this injustice and unbounded sorrow lay at the door of those people "up there"!

Heavens above! how he hated them all.