Out, you beggars, sponges and cheats! Out, I say! Back to the devil who spawned you!" He drove them forth with the flat of his sword.

He saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing save that he was mad, possessed of a capital frenzy, the victim of some frightful dream; save that he saw through blood, that the lust to kill, to rend, and to destroy was on him.

The flat of his sword fell rudely but impartially.
Like a pack of demoralized sheep the roisterers crowded and pressed into the hall.

The vicomte turned angrily and attempted to draw his sword.
"Fool!" cried Victor, seizing the vicomte's hand; "can you not see that he is mad?
He would kill you!" "Curse it, he is striking me with his sword!" "He is mad!" "Well, well, Master Poet; I can wait.

What a night!" It had ceased snowing; the world lay dimly white.