On the wide stone sill of one of these stood Croisette, a boyish figure, looking silently down at me, his hand on the latticed shutter.

He looked pale, and I nodded and smiled at him.

I felt rather anger than fear myself; remembering, as the fiendish cries half-deafened me, old tales of the Jacquerie and its doings, and how we had trodden it out.
Suddenly the din and tumult flashed to a louder note; as when hounds on the scent give tongue at sight.

I turned quickly from the house, recalled to a sense of the position and peril.

The iron bar was yielding to the pressure.