--I know him well. So perish all the enemies of the King
and of the Catholic League!"

Then, as his men still called from the window, the Duke looked up, angry
to be disturbed in his gloating over his arch-foe.

"There is also a lad here," they cried, "one from Geneva, who says he is
of the Admiral's opinion. What shall we do with him?"

"What is that to me?" said the Duke of Guise haughtily; "throw him after
his master."

And that is the reason why a certain John Stirling, a Scot of Geneva,
went through life lame, wearing a countenance twisted like a mask at a
fair, and--loved not the Duke Henry of Guise.

Moreover, though he saw the Duke spurn his dead enemy with his foot, the
boy felt not at the time the kicks with which the scullions imitated
their master, but lay in a swoon on the body of Coligny. He came to
himself, however, being cast aside as of no account, when they came to
drag the Admiral's body to the gallows. After a while the spray of a
fountain that played in the courtyard roused him. The lad washed his
hands and crawled forth. He had lain all the terrible Sunday in the
bloody court of Coligny's lodgings, under the shadow of the trembling
acacias, which cast flecks of light and dark on the broad irregular
stains of the pavement. But when the evening had come again, and the
angry voices shouting "Kill! kill!" had died away, the lame boy hobbled
painfully out. Somehow or other he passed through an unguarded gate, to
find himself sustained by a fellow-countryman carrying a child, a little
maid of four years. He must have been a strong man, that chance-met
Scot, for he had an arm to spare for John Stirling. He spoke, also,
words of hope and comfort to the boy. But these fell on deaf ears. For
through the dull ache of his bones and the sharp nip of his wounds,
undressed save for the blood that had dried upon them, the heart of the
cripple remained with Henry of Guise.

"No," he said over and over to himself, repeating the Duke's words, "the
work is not yet finished!" It had, indeed, scarce begun.

And he registered a vow.

CHAPTER I.

THE DAY OF BARRICADES

"_The good Duke! The sweet Prince! The Church's pillar! Guise! The good
Guise!_"

Through the open window the shouts, near and far, invaded the quiet
class-room of the Sorbonne. It was empty, save for the Professor of
Eloquence, one Dr. Anatole Long, and a certain vagrant bluebottle which,
with the native perversity of its tribe, sough