known. All those who drank that diabolical liquor were suddenly
seized with a feverish rage, a lust of blood and murder. From
that moment it was only necessary to show them the door; they
hurtled madly into the dungeon.

The massacre lasted all night; all night the cries, the sobs,
the groans of the dying sounded through the darkness. All were
killed, all slaughtered, men and women. It was long in doing;
the killers, we have said, were drunk and poorly armed. But they
succeeded.

Among these butchers was a child remarked for his bestial cruelty,
his immoderate thirst for blood. It was Lescuyer's son. He killed
and then killed again; he boasted of having with his childish
hand alone killed ten men and four women.

"It's all right! I can kill as I like," said he. "I am not yet
fifteen, so they can do nothing to me for it."

As the killing progressed, they threw their victims, the living,
dead and wounded, into the Trouillas Tower, some sixty feet,
down into the pit. The men were thrown in first, and the women
later. The assassins wanted time to violate the bodies of those
who were young and pretty. At nine in the morning, after twelve
hours of massacre, a voice was still heard crying from the depths
of the sepulchre:

"For pity's sake, come kill me! I cannot die."

A man, the armorer Bouffier, bent over the pit and looked down.