I willingly undertook the delicate mission.

The next day, February 17, 1881, about ten in the evening, I arrived at
the opera, and went behind the scenes to search for Monsieur Morin. "The
Prophet" was being played, and the third act had just begun. On the
stage the Anabaptists were singing forcibly:

"Du sang! que Judas succombe!
Du sang! Dansons sur leur tombe!
Du sang! Voila l'hécatombe
Que Dieu nous demande encor!"

Axes were raised over the heads of a crowd of hapless prisoners, who
were barons, bishops, monks, and grand ladies. In the wings, balanced on
their skates, all the ballet-girls were waiting the right moment to

"Effleurer la glace
Sans laisser de trace."

I respectfully begged one of the young Westphalian peasant-girls to
point out to me the man named Morin.

"Morin," she replied, "is not one of the skaters. Look, he is on the
stage. That's he over there, the one who is doing the bishop; that
bishop, you see, who is being pushed and pulled. Wait, he will be off
directly."

One of the Anabaptist leaders intervened, however, declaring that the
nobles and priests who could pay ransom should be spared. Morin escaped
with his life, and I had the honor of being presented to him by the