The city was quiet on the surface, but there was a low
deep undercurrent of sound, like the soft purring of a lion before he
roars. The sky was bright with stars. There was no moon, but over the Isle
was a faint tremulous glow.
"It is long past midnight," said Gaspard; "in a little it will be dawn."
Suddenly a shot cracked out. It was so sharp a sound among the muffled
noises that it stung the ear like a whip-lash. It came from the dark mass
of the Louvre, from somewhere beyond the Grand Jardin. It was followed
instantly by a hubbub far down the Rue St. Honore and a glare kindled where
that street joined the Rue d'Arbre Sec.
"That way lies the Admiral," Gaspard cried. "I go to him," and he clapped
spurs to his horse.
But as his beast leapt forward another sound broke out, coming apparently
from above their heads. It was the clanging of a great bell.
There is no music so dominant as bells. Their voice occupies sky as well as
earth, and they overwhelm the senses, so that a man's blood must keep pace
with their beat.
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