His appearance was greeted by a storm of execration.

A sudden shot rang out, and the bullet, striking the wall immediately above him, brought down a shower of plaster on his head.

It had been fired by a demoniac who sat astride the great gates waving his discharged carbine and yelling such ordures of speech as it had never been the most noble Marquis's lot to have stood listening to.
Bellecour never flinched.

As calmly as if nothing had happened, he leant over the parapet and called to his men below.
"Hold, there! Of what are you dreaming slumberers.

Shoot me that fellow down." Their guns had been discharged, but one of them, who had now completed his reloading, levelled the carbine and fired.