The figure on the gates seemed to leap up from his sitting posture, and then with a scream he went over, back to his friends without.
The fired stables were burning gaily by now, and the cheeriest bonfire man could have desired on a dark night, and in the courtyard it was become as light as day.
The Marquis on the balcony was taking stock of his defences and making rapid calculations in his mind.

He saw no reason why, so well protected by those stout oaken gates they should not--if they were but resolute--eventually beat back the mob.

And then, even as his courage was rising at the thought, a deafening explosion seemed to shake the entire Chateau, and the gates--their sole buckler, upon whose shelter he had been so confidently building--crashed open, half blown away by the gunpowder keg that had been fired against it.
He had a fleeting glimpse of a stream of black fiends pouring through the dark gap and dashing with deafening yells into the crimson light of the courtyard.

He saw his little handful of servants retreat precipitately within the Chateau.

He heard the clang of the doors that were swung to just as the foremost of the rabble reached the threshold--With all this clearly stamped upon his mind, he turned, and springing into the salon he drew his sword.
"To the stairs, Messieurs!" he cried "To the stairs!" And to the stairs they went.