note of doom upon the town. A woman crouching at the end of the chamber burst into hysterical weeping, but, at a glance from Tavannes’ terrible eye, was mute again.
Tignonville found voice at last. “Have they—killed the Admiral?” he muttered, his eyes on the table.
“M. Coligny? An hour ago.”
“And Teligny?”
“Him also.”
“M. de Rochefoucauld?”
“They are dealing with M. le Comte now, I believe,” Tavannes answered. “He had his chance and cast it away.” And he began to eat.
The man at the table shuddered. The woman continued to look before her, but her lips moved as if she prayed. Suddenly a rush of feet, a roar of voices surged past the window; for a moment the glare of the torches, which danced ruddily on the walls of the room, showed a severed head borne above the multitude on a pike. Mademoiselle, with a low cry, made an effort to rise, but Count Hannibal grasped her wrist, and she sank back half fainting. Then the nearer clamour sank a little, and the bells, unchallenged, flung their iron tongues above the maddened city. In the east the dawn was growing; soon its grey light would fall on cold hearths, on battered doors and shattered weapons, on hordes of wretches drunk with greed and hate.
When he could be heard, “What are you going to do with us?” the man asked hoarsely.
“That depends,” Count Hannibal replied, after a moment’s thought.
“On what?”
“On Mademoiselle de Vrillac.”
The other’s eyes gleamed with passion. He leaned forward.
“What has she to do with it?” he cried. And he stood up and sat down again in a breath.
