ly. God's truth, man,
have we fought the Indian and the Spaniard for nothing? Wily is the
word. | Are we two gentlemen, who fear God, to be worsted by a rabble of
Papegots and Marannes?"

It was the word "Marannes," or, as we say, "halfcastes," which brought
conviction to Gaspard. Suddenly he saw his enemies as less formidable,
as something contemptible--things of a lower breed, dupers who might
themselves be duped.

"Faith, Gawain, you are the true campaigner. Let us forward, and trust
to Heaven to show us a road."

They galloped down the Rue St. Honore, finding an open space in the
cobbles of the centre, but at the turning into the Rue d'Arbre Sec they
met a block. A great throng with torches was coming in on the right from
the direction of the Bourbon and d'Alencon hotels. Yet by pressing
their horses with whip and spur, and by that awe which the two tall dark
cavaliers inspired even in a mob which had lost its wits, they managed
to make their way to the entrance of the Rue de Bethisy. There they came
suddenly upon quiet.

The crowd was held back by mounted men who made a ring around the gate
of a high dark building. Inside its courtyard there were cries and the
rumour of fighting, but out in the street there was silence. Every eye
was turned to the archway, which was bright as day with the glare of
fifty lanterns.

The two rode straight to the ring of soldiers.

"Make way," Gaspard commanded, speaking with a foreign accent.

"For whom, monsieur?" one asked who seemed to be of a higher standing
than the rest.

"For the Ambassador of the King of Spain."

The man touched his bonnet and opened up a road by striking the adjacent
horses with the flat of his sword, and the two rode into the ring so
that they faced the archway. They could see a little way inside the
courtyard, where the light gleamed on armour. The men there were no
rabble, but Guise's Swiss.

A priest came out, wearing the Jacobin habit, one of those preaching
friars who had been fevering the blood of Paris. The crowd behind the
men-at-arms knew him, for even in its absorption it sent up shouts of
greeting. He flitted like a bat towards Gaspard and Champernoun and
peered up at them. His face was lean and wolfish, with cruel arrogant
eyes.

"Hail, father!" said Gaspard in Spanish. "How goes the good work?"

He replied in the same tongue. "Bravely, my children. But this is but
the beginning. Are you girt and ready for the harvesting?"

"We