ocate has pleaded their cause. Listen! the judge is about to
pronounce their sentence."

Dreadful indeed that was. With blasphemous expressions, which cannot be
repeated, the condemned were sentenced to be carried back to Meaux;
fourteen, after being again put to the torture, were to be burnt alive
in the market-place; most of the others were to be hung up by their
shoulders during the execution of their brethren, and then to be flogged
and imprisoned for life in a monastery, while the remainder were to
receive somewhat less severe, though still grievous punishment.

The hardy young Scot almost turned sick with horror and indignation as
he heard the sentence; and putting his hand to his sword, he was about
to cry out and demand, in the name of justice, that instead of being
punished, the prisoners should be released, when his companion grasped
him by the arm, whispering, "Be calm, my friend; such events are so
common in France, that we have grown accustomed to them. Hundreds have
already died as these men are about to die; and we, their countrymen,
have been compelled to look on without daring to raise our voices in
their cause, or, as you are inclined to do, to draw a sword for their
defence."

Maitre Leroux, after exchanging a few sentences in an undertone with
three or four people they met, whose sad countenances showed the
interest they took in the condemned, led his young friend from the
so-called hall of justice. On their way they looked into the
magnificent church of Notre Dame. Priests in gorgeous dresses were
chanting mass; music was pealing through the building, and incense was
ascending to the roof.

"Impious mockery," muttered Nigel. "Well may Calvin and John Knox
desire the overthrow of such a system, and desire to supplant it by the
true faith of the Gospel."

"Hush! hush! my young friend," whispered Maitre Leroux, hurrying him out
of the church, regretting that he had entered it. "Though many may
think as you do, it's dangerous to utter such opinions in this place."

"Can nothing be done to save these poor men?" asked Nigel. "Surely the
king cannot desire the destruction of his subjects?"

"The king, like Gallio, cares for none of these things. He is taught to
believe that the priests are the best supporters of his crown: and, at
all events, he knows that they allow him full licence in the indulgence
of his pleasures, which the Protestants, he supposes, would be less
inclined to do."

"