y, crumbling
and pigeon-haunted, that dated from St. Louis, and there by the gaunt
arms of a windmill.

The city lay dark under a light sky, keeping well its secrets. Thousands
were out of doors enjoying the evening coolness in alley and court, yet
it betrayed the life which pulsed in its arteries only by the low murmur
which rose from it. Nevertheless, the Countess at sight of its roofs
tasted the first moment of happiness which had been hers that day. She
might suffer, but she had saved. Those roofs would thank her! In that
murmur were the voices of women and children she had redeemed! At the
sight and at the thought a wave of love and tenderness swept all
bitterness from her breast. A profound humility, a boundless
thankfulness took possession of her. Her head sank lower above her
horse's mane; but this time it sank in reverence, not in shame.

Could she have known what was passing beneath those roofs which night was
blending in a common gloom--could she have read the thoughts which at
that moment paled the cheeks of many a stout burgher, whose gabled house
looked on the great square, she had been still more thankful. For in
attics and back rooms women were on their knees at that hour, praying
with feverish eyes; and in the streets men--on whom their fellows, seeing
the winding-sheet already at the chin, gazed askance--smiled, and showed
brave looks abroad, while their hearts were sick with fear.

For darkly, no man knew how, the news had come to Angers. It had been
known, more or less, for three days. Men had read it in other men's
eyes. The tongue of a scold, the sneer of an injured woman had spread
it, the birds of the air had carried it. From garret window to garret
window across the narrow lanes of the old town it had been whispered at
dead of night; at convent grilles, and in the timber-yards beside the
river. Ten thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, it was
rumoured, had perished in Paris. In Orleans, all. In Tours this man's
sister; at Saumur that man's son. Through France the word had gone forth
that the Huguenots must die; and in the busy town the same roof-tree
sheltered fear and hate, rage and cupidity. On one side of the party-
wall murder lurked fierce-eyed; on the other, the victim lay watching the
latch, and shaking at a step. Strong men tasted the bitterness of death,
and women clasping their babes to their breasts smiled sickly into
children's eyes.

The signal only wa