A body of soldiers poured out of the gate, with blood on their bare swords.

Among them was one tall fellow all in armour, with a broken plume on his bonnet.

His face was torn and disfigured and he was laughing horribly.

The Jacobin rushed to embrace him, and the man dropped on his knees to receive a blessing.
"Behold our hero," the friar cried.

"His good blade has rid us of the arch-heretic," and the mob took up the shout.
Gaspard was cool now.