"Then smite I will!" the Marshal retorted, and with the butt of his
pistol struck the zealot down. Then, with as much indifference as he
would have treated a Huguenot, he spurred his horse over him, with a mad
laugh at his jest. "Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes!" he
yelled. "Touches Tavannes! On! On! Bleed in August, bleed in May!"

"On!" shouted his followers, striking about them in the same desperate
fashion. They were young nobles who had spent the night feasting at the
Palace, and, drunk with wine and mad with excitement, had left the Louvre
at daybreak to rouse the city. "A Jarnac! A Jarnac!" they cried, and
some saluted Count Hannibal as they passed. And so, shouting and
spurring and following their leader, they swept away down the now empty
street, carrying terror and a flame wherever their horses bore them that
morning.

Tavannes, his hands on the ledge of the shattered window, leaned out
laughing, and followed them with his eyes. A moment, and the mob was
gone, the street was empty; and one by one, with sheepish faces, his
pikemen emerged from the doorways and alleys in which they had taken
refuge. They gathered about the three huddled forms which lay prone and
still in the gutter: or, not three--two. For even as they approached
them, one, the priest, rose slowly and giddily to his feet. He turned a
face bleeding, lean, and relentless towards the window at which Tavannes
stood. Solemnly, with the sign of the cross, and with uplifted hands, he
cursed him in bed and at board, by day and by night, in walking, in
riding, in standing, in the day of battle, and at the hour of death. The
pikemen fell back appalled, and hid their eyes; and those who were of the
north crossed themselves, and those who came from the south bent two
fingers horse-shoe fashion. But Hannibal de Tavannes laughed; laughed in
his moustache, his teeth showing, and bade them move that carrion to a