strike a blow for life and freedom, before he was quite, taken in the
trap. But he stood helpless, paralyzed, gazing in dreamy stupor--like one
fascinated at the destruction awaiting him.

At last, one memorable May morning, a traveller alighted outside the gate
of Saint Martin, and proceeded on foot through the streets of Paris. He
was wrapped in a large cloak, which he held carefully over his face. When
he had got as far as the street of Saint Denis, a young gentleman among
the passers by, a good Leaguer, accosted the stranger, and with coarse
pleasantry, plucked the cloak from his face, and the hat from his head.
Looking at the handsome, swarthy features, marked with a deep scar, and
the dark, dangerous eyes which were then revealed, the practical jester
at once recognized in the simple traveller the terrible Balafre, and
kissed the hem of his garments with submissive rapture. Shouts of "Vive
Guise" rent the air from all the bystanders, as the Duke, no longer
affecting concealment, proceeded with a slow and stately step toward the
residence of Catharine de' Medici.' That queen of compromises and of
magic had been holding many a conference with the leaders of both
parties; had been increasing her son's stupefaction by her enigmatical
counsels; had been anxiously consulting her talisman of goat's and human
blood, mixed with metals melted under the influence of the star of her
nativity, and had been daily visiting the wizard Ruggieri, in whose magic
circle--peopled with a thousand fantastic heads--she had held high
converse with the world of spirits, and derived much sound advice as to
the true course of action to be pursued between her son and Philip, and
between the politicians and the League. But, in spite of these various
sources of instruction, Catharine--was somewhat perplexed, now that
decisive action seemed necessary--a dethronement and a new massacre
impending, and judicious compromise difficult. So after a hurried
conversation with Mucio, who insisted on an interview with the King, she
set forth for the Louvre, the Duke lounging calmly by the aide of her,
sedan chair, on foot, receiving the homage of the populace, as men,
women, and children together, they swarmed around him as he walked,
kissing his garments, and rending the air with their shouts. For that
wolfish mob of Paris, which had once lapped the blood of ten thousand
Huguenots in a single night, and was again rabid with thirst, was most
docile and fawn