ng I am describing, that long-past summer morning when I first saw
the sun shining on the streets of Paris. Croisette clung to me, sick
and white, shutting his eyes and ears, and letting me guide him as I
would. Marie strode along on the other side of him, his lips closed,
his eyes sinister. Once a soldier of the guard whose blood-stained
hands betrayed the work he had done, came reeling--he was drunk, as
were many of the butchers--across our path, and I gave way a little.
Marie did not, but walked stolidly on as if he did not see him, as if
the way were clear, and there were no ugly thing in God's image
blocking it.

Only his hand went as if by accident to the haft of his dagger. The
archer--fortunately for himself and for us too--reeled clear of us. We
escaped that danger. But to see women killed and pass by--it was
horrible! So horrible that if in those moments I had had the
wishing-cap, I would have asked but for five thousand riders, and leave
to charge with them through the streets of Paris! I would have had the
days of the Jacquerie back again, and my men-at-arms behind me!

For ourselves, though the orgy was at its height when we passed, we
were not molested. We were stopped indeed three times--once in each of
the streets we traversed--by different bands of murderers. But as we
wore the same badges as themselves, and cried "VIVE LA MESSE!" and
gave our names, we were allowed to proceed. I can give no idea of the
confusion and uproar, and I scarcely believe myself now that we saw
some of the things we witnessed. Once a man gaily dressed, and
splendidly mounted, dashed past us, waving his naked sword and crying
in a frenzied way "Bleed them! Bleed them! Bleed in May, as good
to-day!" and never ceased crying out the same words until he passed
beyond our hearing. Once we came upon the bodies of a father and two
sons, which lay piled together in the kennel; partly stripped already.
The youngest boy could not have been more than thirteen, I mention this
group, not as surpassing others in pathos, but because it is well known
now that this boy, Jacques Nompar de Caumont, was not dead, but lives
to-day, my friend the Marshal de la Force.

This reminds me too of the single act of kindness we were able to
perform. We found ourselves suddenly, on turning a corner, amid a gang
of seven or eight soldiers, who had stopped and surrounded a handsome
boy, apparently about fourteen. He wore a scholar's gown, and