o, Monsieur, quick," urged the lad, tugging at my coat, "it is
late."

The dusk in fact was coming on apace and climbing shadows crept round
the grotesque masonry. Unheeding the lad's fear, I was strongly
impelled to talk with the daft creature. It was an impulse born not
wholly of idle curiosity. I felt strangely moved.

"What do you want of me, old man?" I asked.

"I am Henri d'Artin, by murder's hand laid low; I would tell you much."

"Let us go, Monsieur, let us go. He speaks of unholy things," the boy
pleaded fearfully. Meeting no response he turned and fled down the
slope, away in the twilight beneath the trees.

"Dost hear the clanking arms, the rolling drums of war? List unto the
shouts, the cries within. Dost not know it is the day after the feast
of the most Blessed Saint Bartholomew?"

The man's wild earnestness fixed a spell upon me, and to the end of his
narrative I listened until the tale was done. I can not hope to set
down here as I heard it what the madman said, nor to have my lines
breathe forth the vigor of his speech. Carried beyond mortal energy by
his frenzy, overmastered by some mysterious Power of which we men know
naught, he threw into his strange, weird story a life and action which
entered my very soul. And as he spoke he seemed to live through the
scenes that he so vividly described. It was as though some grim drama
were being enacted for my enlightenment. So well as I can tell it, the
tale ran thus:

On yestermorn my wife, my daughter and little boy, committed to the
charge of old Gaston, had driven into Rouen to spend the day. I rode
along after them to learn the news from Paris. We of the Reformed
Faith hoped for great things from the meeting of our leaders with the
Duke of Guise and the Queen Mother, for King Charles seemed kindly
disposed toward us. But, God of Mercy! what scenes there were in
Rouen; everywhere was slaughter, everywhere was murder. I found my
carriage overturned in the streets, covering the dead and mutilated
bodies of wife and daughter; the babe, unhurt and unnoticed in the
carriage, had escaped. Throughout the city were prowling bands wearing
the white cross in their caps, the white sash on their arms, which
designated the followers of Guise, and with cries of "Death to the
Huguenots" and "No quarter to the enemies of Holy Church," they slew
without mercy. I had now no idea but to put my boy in a place of
safety, and with him before me rode