The mob had evidently assembled in the great square outside the prison, and was loudly demanding the object of its wrath.
The moment for cool-headed action was at hand.

The Scarlet Pimpernel had planned the whole thing, but it was for his followers and for those, whom he was endeavouring to rescue from certain death, to help him heart and soul.
Deroulede's grasp tightened on Juliette's little hand.
"Are you frightened, my beloved ?" he whispered.
"Not whilst you are near me," she murmured in reply.
A few more minutes' walk up the Rue des Archives and they were in the thick of the crowd.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Lord Anthony Dewhurst, and Lord Hastings, the three Englishmen, were in front; Deroulede and Juliette immediately behind them.
The mob itself now carried them along.

A motley throng they were, soaked through with the rain, drunk with their own baffled rage, and with the brandy which they had imbibed.
Everyone was shouting; the women louder than the rest; one of them was dragging the length of rope, which might still be useful.
"_Ca ira! ca ira! A la lanterne! A la lanterne! les traitres!_" And Deroulede, holding Juliette by the hand, shouted lustily with them: "_Ca ira!_" Sir Andrew Ffoulkes turned, and laughed.

It was rare sport for these young bucks, and they all entered into the spirit of the situation.