Instead of these the brine-laden sea-air struck her quivering nostrils, the echo of the old Beffroi died away in her ear, and now from out one of the streets or open places of the sleeping city there came the sound of a raucous voice, shooting in monotonous tones a string of words, the meaning of which failed to reach her brain.
Not many feet below the window, the southern ramparts of the town stretched away into the darkness.

She felt unaccountably cold suddenly as she looked down upon them and, with aching eyes, tried to pierce the gloom.

She was shivering in spite of the mildness of this early autumnal night: her overwrought fancy was peopling the lonely walls with unearthly shapes strolling along, discussing in spectral language a strange duel which was to take place here between a noted butcher of men and a mad Englishman overfond of adventure.
The ghouls seemed to pass and repass along in front of her and to be laughing audibly because that mad Englishman had been offered his life in exchange for his honour.

They laughed and laughed, no doubt because he refused the bargain--Englishmen were always eccentric, and in these days of equality and other devices of a free and glorious revolution, honour was such a very marketable commodity that it seemed ridiculous to prize it quite so highly.

Then they strolled away again and disappeared, whilst Marguerite distinctly heard the scrunching of the path beneath their feet.