"Death! Death to the Huguenots! Kill, and no quarter!" A dozen--the
room was beginning to fill--waved their weapons and echoed the cry.

Tignonville had been fortunate enough to apprehend the position--and the
peril in which he stood--before Maillard advanced to him bearing a white
linen sleeve. In the instant of discovery his heart had stood a moment,
the blood had left his cheeks; but with some faults, he was no coward,
and he managed to hide his emotion. He held out his left arm, and
suffered the beadle to pass the sleeve over it and to secure the white
linen above the elbow. Then at a gesture he gave up his velvet cap, and
saw it decorated with a white cross of the same material.

"Now the register, Monsieur," Maillard continued briskly; and waving him
in the direction of a clerk, who sat at the end of the long table, having
a book and a ink-horn before him, he turned to the next comer.

Tignonville would fain have avoided the ordeal of the register, but the
clerk's eye was on him. He had been fortunate so far, but he knew that
the least breath of suspicion would destroy him, and summoning his wits
together he gave his name in a steady voice. "Anne Desmartins." It was
his mother's maiden name, and the first that came into his mind.

"Of Paris?"

"Recently; by birth, of the Limousin."

"Good, Monsieur," the clerk answered, writing in the name. And he turned
to the next. "And you, my friend?"