straight for the nearest gate. I
passed unmolested through the streets, and by avoiding the public
places, drawing out of the way of murdering bands, thought to evade
them and reach the river gate south of town. My whole soul revolted at
leaving the bodies of wife and daughter in Rouen, but the living child
must be considered before the dead. At the turn from out the obscure
Rue St. Croix into the open square at Vieux Marche I heard a shout,
"Here he is, this way," and saw a man at arms stationed in the square
beckoning to his comrades who came clattering down the Rue de Crosne.
This blocked the path along which I intended to leave the town.

Riding at their head I recognized my old time enemy, my half brother,
Pedro Ortez, a man of whose prowess and cruelty terrible stories were
told.

Right willingly would I have paused to give him fight, but for the
babe. The fellow who had raised the cry now threw himself full in my
way with the evident purpose of engaging me until the others came up.
I made straight at him, but he stood his ground bravely, and encumbered
as I was with the child, he succeeded in wounding me twice before I
could pierce him through the throat and drop him from his horse.
Verily, his courage was worthy a better quarrel.

This, in full sight of the oncoming band, fixed their attention, and,
raising the shout of "Death to d'Artin," they spurred their horses to a
gallop. I had barely disappeared down the deserted Rue Corneille when
they debouched into the square, spreading out and circling round as
hounds hot upon a scent. Here they were at fault, not knowing whither
I had turned among so many narrow and irregular streets. Before they
found me again I was well upon the high road to Cartillon. The
superior speed of my horse gave me easily the lead.

I soon overtook Gaston, drawn aside in the bushes, wounded and
bleeding, waiting for me. At first I upbraided him fiercely, but a
frightful gash across his head, dabbling his gray hairs in blood,
stopped my wrath. On the ride home he told me of the day's disaster.
Pedro Ortez and his cut-throats had set upon them in the name of the
church. He was soon cut down and left upon the street, recovering
consciousness only to find his murdered mistress lying dead beside him.
He had then crawled away to warn me, for the whole object of Ortez
seemed to be to take my life.

Gaston's distress was pitiful; as his mute eyes now and again sought
mine, I could