o the next comer.

Tignonville would fain have avoided the ordeal of the register, but the
clerk's eye was on him. He had been fortunate so far, but he knew that
the least breath of suspicion would destroy him, and summoning his wits
together he gave his name in a steady voice. "Anne Desmartins." It was
his mother's maiden name, and the first that came into his mind.

"Of Paris?"

"Recently; by birth, of the Limousin."

"Good, Monsieur," the clerk answered, writing in the name. And he turned
to the next. "And you, my friend?"

CHAPTER IV. THE EVE OF THE FEAST.

It was Tignonville's salvation that the men who crowded the long white-
walled room, and exchanged vile boasts under the naked flaring lights,
were of all classes. There were butchers, natives of the surrounding
quarter whom the scent of blood had drawn from their lairs; and there
were priests with hatchet faces, who whispered in the butchers' ears.
There were gentlemen of the robe, and plain mechanics, rich merchants in
their gowns, and bare-armed ragpickers, sleek choristers, and shabby led-
captains; but differ as they might in other points, in one thing all were
alike. From all, gentle or simple, rose the same cry for blood, the same
aspiration to be first equipped for the fray. In one corner a man of
rank stood silent and apart, his hand on his sword, the working of his
face alone betraying the storm that reigned within. In another, a Norman
horse-dealer talked in low whispers with two thieves. In a third, a gold-
wire drawer addressed an admiring group from the Sorbonne; and meantime
the middle of the floor grew into a seething mass of muttering, scowling
men, through whom the last comers, thrust as they might, had much ado to
force their way.

And from all under the low ceiling rose a ceaseless hum, though none
spoke loud. "Kill! kill! kill!" was the burden; the accompaniment such
profanities and blasphemies as had long disgraced the Paris pulpits, and
day by day had fanned the bigotry--already at a white heat--of the
Parisian populace. Tignonville turned sick as he listened, and would
fain have closed his ears. But for his life he dared not. And presently
a cripple in a beggar's garb, a dwarfish, filthy creature with matted
hair, twitched his sleeve, and offered him a whetstone.

"Are you sharp, noble sir?" he asked, with a leer. "Are you sharp? It's
surprising how the edge goes on the bone. A cut and thrust? Well, every