The King and his party crossed another square in the darkness. A small skirmish had taken place here only moments ago. The soldiers had already dispersed; the wounded lay groaning on the ground, while some shameless rioters crept out from dark corners, rummaging over the dead for anything of value—shoulder belts, coats, waistbands, or boots. Some were not quite dead, but after being tossed about like this, they would surely die.
The passing carriage, musketeers, and monks startled these people. They immediately fled back into their nests as swiftly as rats exposed to the light, peering out with gleaming eyes from behind crates or windows. Perhaps some had seen the monks' robes. They cried out low and painfully, begging for a chance to confess, but neither the King nor Yilalue had any intention of stopping, nor did the monks. They were God's spear and shield, not the hands with which He soothed mortals. Rather than promoting virtue, they preferred—and were better at—purging evil. If Louis had to say it, they would do better to claim they had been attacked by ghouls or vampires; perhaps then someone would dismount and investigate.
They continued as far as Saint-Pierre Church before finally finding a bridge over the Seine River that had not yet been blocked or burned. Once across the Seine, they headed southwest.
Perhaps they had gone only a thousand feet, or fifteen hundred, when the carriage was forced to halt again. Emerging from the night mist was a disciplined and powerful legion. Duke of Mortemart called it that because he could not hear the familiar clamor. In this age, it was simply impossible to make soldiers observe iron discipline. Like the recruits General Schomberg had enlisted, it was already God's blessing if they could avoid shooting their own men when using