It had found them a recklessly merry crew, good to behold in their silks and satins, powder and patches, gold lace and red heels, moving with waving fans, or hand on sword, and laced beaver under elbow, through the stately figures of the gavotte.
Scared, white-faced lackeys had brought the news, dashing wildly in upon that courtly assembly.

The peasants had risen and were marching on Bellecour.
Some of his sudden rage the Marquis vented by striking the servants' spokesman in the face.
"Dare you bring me such a message ?" he cried furiously.
"But, my lord, what are we to do ?" gasped the frightened lackey.
"Do, fool ?" returned Bellecour.

"Why, close the gates and bid them return home as they value their lives.

For if they give me trouble I'll hang a round dozen of them." Still was there that same big talk of hanging men.

Still did it seem that the Marquis of Bellecour accounted himself the same lord of life and death that he and his forbears had been for generations.