The beat of many feet hastening one way--towards the Porte Tertasse--the clatter of weapons as here and there a man trailed his pike on the stones, the roar of rising voices, the rattle of metal as some one hauled a chain across the end of the Bourg du Four and hooked it--sounds such as these might have alarmed an ordinary man who knew himself cut off from his party, and isolated among foes.
But Basterga did not quail.

His belief in his star was genuine; he was intoxicated with the success which he fancied lay within his grasp.

He carried Caesar and his fortunes! was it in mean men to harm him?
Nay, so confident was he, that when he had opened the door he stood an instant on the threshold viewing the strange scene, and quoted with an appreciation as strange-- "At domus interior gemitu miseroque tumultu Miscetur, penitusque cavae plangoribus aedes Femineis ululant; ferit aurea sidera clamor"-- from his favourite poet.

After which without hesitation but also without hurry he turned and plunged into the stream of passers that was hurrying towards the Porte Tertasse.
He had been right not to quail.

In the medley of light and shadow which filled the Bourg du Four and the streets about the Town Hall, in the confusion, in the rush of all in one direction and with one intent, no one paid heed to him, or supposed him to belong to the enemy.