But he knew also that to hesitate now, to pause now, was to be torn in pieces; for his riders, seeing that which the banner had veiled from him, had not followed him, and he was alone, in the middle of brandished fists and weapons.

He hesitated not a moment.

Drawing a pistol, he spurred onwards, his horse plunging wildly among the shrieking priests; and though a hundred hands, hands of acolytes, hands of shaven monks, clutched at his bridle or gripped his boot, he got clear of them.

Clear, carrying with him the memory of one face seen an instant amid the crowd, one face seen, to be ever remembered--the face of Father Pezelay, white, evil, scarred, distorted by wicked triumph.
Behind him, the thunder of "Sacrilege! Sacrilege!" rose to Heaven, and men were gathering.

In front the crowd which skirmished about the inn was less dense, and, ignorant of the thing that had happened in the narrow street, made ready way for him, the boldest recoiling before the look on his face.