For I found myself confronted by a ring of angry faces--of men who, keeping at a distance, hissed and cursed and threatened me, calling me Black Death and the like.
They were mostly canaille, who had gathered during the fight, and had viewed all that passed from the farther side of the railings.

While some snarled and raged at me like wolves, calling me 'Butcher!' and 'Cut-throat!' or cried out that Berault was at his trade again, others threatened me with the vengeance of the Cardinal, flung the edict in my teeth, and said with glee that the guard were coming--they would see me hanged yet.
'His blood is on your head!' one cried furiously.

'He will be dead in an hour.

And you will swing for him! Hurrah!' 'Begone,' I said.
'Ay, to Montfaucon,' he answered, mocking me.
'No; to your kennel!' I replied, with a look which sent him a yard backwards, though the railings were between us.

And I wiped my blade carefully, standing a little apart.