“What is the matter with you?” I asked.
“Sir,” he faltered, “the Calvinists have met for their interdicted worship in the mill of M. Etienne near the Carmelite gate.”
I was much alarmed. Lo, then, it was betrayed. “And what else,” I cried.
“The mill is surrounded by dragoons, and all within are prisoners. Only think, the Mareschale de Montreval is there himself. The preacher and a few others of the secured heretics endeavoured to escape through the window, but the mareschale gave the signal, and the dragoons fired.”
“Fired?” I cried. “Was any one killed?”
“Four of them lie dead on the spot,” was the servant’s reply.
Without asking any further questions, I took my hat and stick. Clementine wept and trembled; she would not let me leave her, turned pale, and clung speechless and in great anguish round my neck.
Madame de Sonnes came in. I told her of this frightful occurrence, and that I was resolved to hasten there in order to move the mareschale to humanity. She praised my resolution, entreating me to fly thither without delay, and spoke consoling words to Clementine.
As I departed, I looked back, and saw Clementine pale and trembling in her mother’s arms. I returned, kissed her pale lips, and hastened away.
When I reached the gate, I had to force my way through a throng of people who stood crowded together, gaping with mingled curiosity, terror, joy, and expectation.