t
to the nervous horror of the whole party. Only one, a dull and composed
girl, felt the influence of weariness, and dozed with her head in
her companion's lap; but she was awakened by one general shudder and
suppressed cry when the hoarse clang of a bell struck on the ears of the
already terrified, excited maidens.

'The tocsin! The bell of St. Germain! Fire! No, a Huguenot rising! Fire!
Oh, let us out! Let us out! The window! Where is the fire? Nowhere!
See the lights! Hark, that was a shot! It was in the palace! A heretic
rising! Ah! there was to be a slaughter of the heretics! I heard it
whispered. Oh, let us out! Open the door!'

But nobody heard: nobody opened. There was one who stood without word
or cry, close to the door--her eyes dilated, her cheek colourless, her
whole person, soul and body alike, concentrated in that one impulse to
spring forward the first moment the bolt should be drawn. But still the
door remained fast shut!

CHAPTER XII. THE PALACE OF SLAUGHTER

A human shambles with blood-reeking floor.
MISS SWANWICK, Esch. Agamemnon

The door was opened at last, but not till full daylight. It found
Eustacie as ready to rush forth, past all resistance, as she had been
the night before, and she was already in the doorway when her maid
Veronique, her face swollen with weeping, caught her by the hands and
implored her to turn back and listen.

And words about a rising of the Huguenots, a general destruction,
corpses lying in the court, were already passing between the other
maidens and the CONCIERGE. Eustacie turned upon her servant: 'Veronique,
what means it? Where is he?'

'Alas! alas! Ah! Mademoiselle, do but lie down! Woe is me! I saw it all!
Lie down, and I will tell you.'

'Tell! I will not move till you have told me where my husband is,' said
Eustacie, gazing with eyes that seemed to Veronique turned to stone.

'Ah! my lady--my dear lady! I was on the turn of the stairs, and saw
all. The traitor--the Chevalier Narcisse--came on him, cloaked like
you--and--shot him dead--with, oh, such cruel words of mockery! Oh! woe
the day! Stay, stay, dear lady, the place is all blood--they
are slaying them all--all the Huguenots! Will no one stop
her?--Mademoiselle--ma'm'selle!--'

For Eustacie no sooner gathered the sense of Veronique's words than she
darted suddenly forwards, and was in a few seconds more at the foot of
the stairs. There, indeed, lay a pool of dark gore,