"The end may be better, Mademoiselle, than you think," he answered, bowing. And then to the miserable servants, who hung back afraid to leave the shelter of their mistress's skirts, "To your places!" he cried. "Set Mademoiselle's chair. Are you so remiss on other days? If so," with a look of terrible meaning, "you will be the less loss! Now, Mademoiselle, may I have the honour? And when we are at table we can talk." He extended his hand, and, obedient to his gesture, she moved to the place at the head of the table, but without letting her fingers come into contact with his. He gave no sign that he noticed this, but he strode to the place on her right, and signed to Tignonville to take that on her left. "Will you not be seated?" he continued. For she kept her feet. She turned her head stiffly, until for the first time her eyes looked into his. A shudder more violent than the last shook her. "Had you not better--kill us at once?" she whispered. The blood had forsaken even her lips. Her face was the face of a statue--white, beautiful, lifeless. "I think not," he said gravely. "Be seated, and let us hope for the best. And you, sir," he continued, turning to Carlat, "serve your mistress with wine. She needs it." The steward filled for her, and then for each of the men, his shaking hand spilling as much as it poured. Nor was this strange. Above the din and uproar of the street, above the crash of distant doors, above the tocsin that still rang from the reeling steeple of St. Germain's, the great bell of the Palais on the island had just begun to hurl its note of doom upon the town. A woman crouching at the end of the chamber burst into hysterical weeping, but, at a glance from Tavannes' terrible eye, was mute again. Tignonville found voice at last. "Have they--killed the Admiral?" he muttered, his eyes on the table. "M. Coligny? An hour ago." "And Teligny?" "Him also." "M. de Rochefoucauld?" "They are dealing with M. le Comte now, I believe," Tavannes answered. "He had his chance and cast it away." And he began to eat. The man at the table shuddered. The woman continued to look before her, but her lips moved as if she prayed. Suddenly a rush of feet, a roar of voices surged past the window; for a moment the glare of the torches, which danced ruddily on the walls of the room, showed a severed head borne above the multitude on a pike. Mademoiselle, with a low cry, made an effort to rise, but Count Hannibal grasped her wrist, and she sank back half fainting. Then the nearer clamour sank a little, and the bells, unchallenged, flung their iron tongues above the maddened city. In the east the dawn was growing; soon its grey light would fall on cold hearths, on battered doors and shattered weapons, on hordes of wretches drunk with greed and hate. When he could be heard, "What are you going to do with us?" the man asked hoarsely. "That depends," Count Hannibal replied, after a moment's thought. "On what?"