M. de Lesdiguieres contemptuously answered that he did not understand me. But your wits are better than his. You understand me, I think? Don't you?"
Again a great roar, mingled now with some approving laughter, was his answer. He had wrought them up to a pitch of dangerous passion, and they were ripe for any violence to which he urged them. If he had failed with the windmill, at least he was now master of the wind.
"To the Palais!" they shouted, waving their hands, brandishing canes, and-here and there-even a sword. "To the Palais! Down with M. de Lesdiguieres! Death to the King's Lieutenant!"
He was master of the wind, indeed. His dangerous gift of oratory
-a gift nowhere more powerful than in France, since nowhere else are men's emotions so quick to respond to the appeal of eloquence
-had given him this mastery.
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