The woman struck at the soldier in a stupid, senseless, useless way, and then gathered her trembling chicks under her wing, trying to look defiant.
In a moment she was surrounded.

Two soldiers seized her, and two more dragged the children away from her.

She screamed and the children cried, the soldiers swore and struck out right and left with their bayonets.
There was a general melee, calls of agony rent the air, rough oaths drowned the shouts of the helpless.

Some women, panic-stricken, started to run.
And Blakeney from his window looked down upon the scene.

He no longer saw the garden at Richmond, the lazily-flowing river, the bowers of roses; even the sweet face of Marguerite, sad and lonely, appeared dim and far away.
He looked across the ice-bound river, past the quay where rough soldiers were brutalising a number of wretched defenceless women, to that grim Chatelet prison, where tiny lights shining here and there behind barred windows told the sad tale of weary vigils, of watches through the night, when dawn would bring martyrdom and death.
And it was not Marguerite's blue eyes that beckoned to him now, it was not her lips that called, but the wan face of a child with matted curls hanging above a greasy forehead, and small hands covered in grime that had once been fondled by a Queen.
The adventurer in him had chased away the dream.
"While there is life in me I'll cheat those brutes of prey," he murmured..