ed it to a
nicety--that Count Hannibal found least bearable, but his enforced
inactivity. He had thought to ride the whirlwind and direct the storm,
and out of the danger of others to compact his own success. Instead he
lay here, not only powerless to guide his destiny, which hung on the
discretion of another, but unable to stretch forth a finger to further
his plans.

As he sat looking darkly at the lanthorn, his mind followed Biron and his
riders through the midnight streets along St. Antoine and La Verrerie,
through the gloomy narrows of the Rue la Ferronerie, and so past the
house in the Rue St. Honore where Mademoiselle sat awaiting the
morrow--sat awaiting Tignonville, the minister, the marriage! Doubtless
there were still bands of plunderers roaming to and fro; at the barriers
troops of archers stopping the suspected; at the windows pale faces
gazing down; at the gates of the Temple, and of the walled enclosures
which largely made up the city, strong guards set to prevent invasion.
Biron would go with sufficient to secure himself; and unless he
encountered the bodyguard of Guise his passage would quiet the town. But
was it so certain that _she_ was safe? He knew his men, and while he had
been free he had not hesitated to leave her in their care. But now that
he could not go, now that he could not raise a hand to help, the
confidence which had not failed him in straits more dangerous grew weak.
He pictured the things which might happen, at which, in his normal frame
of mind, he would have laughed. Now they troubled him so that he started
at a shadow, so that he quailed at a thought. He, who last night, when
free to act, had timed his coming and her rescue to a minute! Who had
rejoiced in the peril, since with the glamour of such things foolish
women were taken! Who had not flinched when the crowd roared most
fiercely for her blood!

Why had he suffered himself to be trapped? Why indeed? And thrice in
passion he paced the room. Long ago the famous Nostradamus had told him
that he would live to be a king, but of the smallest kingdom in the
world. "Every man is a king in his coffin," he had answered. "The grave
is cold and your kingdom shall be warm," the wizard had rejoined. On
which the courtiers had laughed, promising him a Moorish island and a
black queen. And he had gibed with the rest, but secretly had taken note
of the sovereign counties of France, their rulers and their heirs. Now
he held