We found ourselves then in the mouth of an obscure alley which my
companion whispered would bring us to his house; and here we
paused to take breath and look back. The sky was red behind us,
the air full of the clash and din of the tocsin, and the flood of
sounds which poured from every tower and steeple. From the
eastward came the rattle of drums and random shots, and shrieks
of "A BAS COLIGNY!" "A BAS LES HUGUENOTS!" Meanwhile the city
was rising as one man, pale at this dread awakening. From every
window men and women, frightened by the uproar, were craning
their necks, asking or answering questions or hurriedly calling
for and kindling tapers. But as yet the general populace seemed
to be taking no active part in the disorder.

Pavannes raised his hat an instant as we stood in the shadow of
the houses. "The noblest man in France is dead," he said, softly
and reverently. "God rest his soul! They have had their way
with him and killed him like a dog. He was an old man and they
did not spare him! A noble, and they have called in the CANAILLE
to tear him. But be sure, my friend"--and as the speaker's tone
changed and grew full and proud, his form seemed to swell with
it--"be sure the cruel shall not live out half their days! No.
He that takes the knife shall perish by the knife! And go to his
own place! I shall not see it, but you will!"

His words made no great impression on me then. My hardihood was
returning. I was throbbing with fierce excitement, and tingling
for the fight. But years afterwards, when the two who stood
highest in the group about Coligny's threshold died, the one at
thirty-eight, the other at thirty-five--when Henry of Guise and