are ready," said Gaspard. His voice shook with fury, but the Jacobin
took it for enthusiasm. He held up his hand in blessing and fluttered
back to the archway.

From inside the courtyard came the sound of something falling, and then
a great shout. The mob had jumped to a conclusion. "That is the end of
old Toothpick," a voice cried, using the Admiral's nickname There was
a wild surge round the horsemen, but the ring held. A body of soldiers
poured out of the gate, with blood on their bare swords. Among them was
one tall fellow all in armour, with a broken plume on his bonnet. His
face was torn and disfigured and he was laughing horribly. The Jacobin
rushed to embrace him, and the man dropped on his knees to receive a
blessing.

"Behold our hero," the friar cried. "His good blade has rid us of the
arch-heretic," and the mob took up the shout.

Gaspard was cool now. His fury had become a cold thing like a glacier.

"I know him!" he whispered to Champernoun. "He is the Italian Petrucci.
He is our first quarry."

"The second will be that damned friar," was the Englishman's answer.

Suddenly the ring of men-at-arms drew inward as a horseman rode out of
the gate followed by half a dozen attendants. He was a tall young man,
very noble to look upon, with a flushed face like a boy warm from the
game of paume. His long satin coat was richly embroidered, and round
his neck hung the thick gold collar of some Order. He was wiping a stain
from his sleeve with a fine lawn handkerchief.

"What is that thing gilt like a chalice?" whispered Champernoun.

"Henry of Guise," said Gaspard.

The Duke caught sight of the two men in the centre of the ring. The
lanterns made the whole place bright and he could see every detail of
their dress and bearing. He saluted them courteously.

"We make your Grace our compliments," said Gaspard. "We are of the
household of the Ambassador of Spain, and could not rest indoors when
great deeds were being done in the city."

The young man smiled pleasantly. There was a boyish grace in his
gesture.

"You are welcome, gentlemen. I would have every good Catholic in Europe
see with his own eyes the good work of this Bartholomew's day. I would
ask you to ride with me, but I leave the city in pursuit of the Count of
Montgomery, who is rumoured to have escaped. There will be much for you
to see on this happy Sunday. But stay! You are not attended, and our
streets are none too safe for strangers. Present