se of looking into the street. It was crowded
with people wearing white crosses in their hats and white bands round
their arms.

Then, for the first time, I noticed that some one had tied a white band
round my arm. I tore the accursed emblem off, and trampled it underfoot,
in a fit of childish rage.

The citizens were dancing, shouting, and yelling like maniacs. They were
armed with clubs and pikes and swords, and one could see the clots of
blood clinging to the deadly weapons. I stood at the window horrified,
yet fascinated by the dreadful sight. A soldier, evidently an officer of
high rank, rode past cheering and waving a blood-stained sword. I caught
sight of his face, and recognized Marshal Tavannes.

Directly afterwards, a man chased by human bloodhounds from the shelter
of a neighbouring house darted into the midst of the crowd. He twisted
and doubled, running now this way, now that, like a hunted hare. The
assassins struck at him fiercely as he ran, holding his hands above his
head to protect himself.

A blow from a club struck one arm, and it dropped to his side, broken.
He turned sharply; a ruffian pricked him with his knife; he staggered
forward, lurched, swayed to and fro, and finally fell. I closed my eyes
in order not to see the end of the ghastly tragedy.

Presently a cart rumbled slowly along. Men and women danced round about
it, shouting and jeering, and brandishing their pikes and clubs. The
clumsy vehicle was packed with human beings, bound hand and foot, and
tied, as far as I could see, two together. They lay in a confused heap,
some of them wounded and bleeding.

I wondered in a dull sort of way where they were being taken. I learned
later that they were flung one and two at a time into the Seine, while
their savage enemies watched them drown.

Sick at heart, and stricken with horror, I lay down again upon the bed.
My misery was so intense that I cared nothing about my own fate. Coligny
was dead; I had seen Felix killed before my eyes; most of the gallant
gentlemen who had been my true and loyal comrades were slain--what
mattered it whether I lived or died? Strangely enough, perhaps, I did
not even ask myself how I had escaped the awful butchery.

Shortly after noon, the door was opened, and some one entered the room.
I expected to see a ruffian with a blood-red pike; my visitor was a pale
but pretty woman, carrying a bowl of soup.

"Drink this, monsieur," she said, "it will give you streng