On the bank of this river, which then separated the ducal states from those of Geneva, at the foot of the bridge on the Savoy side, stood a fine walnut-tree, whose leafy branches spread opposite the church of Our Lady of Grace on the Genevan side. The bishop’s agents, who had received orders to make an exhibition of the mutilated limbs for the benefit of the Genevans, proceeded to the bridge on Saturday night in order to discharge their disgraceful commission under cover of the darkness. They carried with them, in addition to their casks filled with flesh, brine, and blood, a ladder, a hammer, some nails and cord. On reaching the tree, they opened the barrels and found the features well preserved and easily recognisable. The bastard’s agents climbed the tree, and nailed the heads and arms to the branches in such a manner as to be seen by all the passers-by. They fixed a placard underneath, bearing these words: ‘These are the traitors of Geneva;’ and the white cross of Savoy above. They then withdrew, leaving the empty casks at the foot of the tree. ‘It was done by order of your bishop,’ said the duke in a letter written three days later (October 5) to his very dear, beloved, and trusty citizens of Geneva, ‘your bishop, whom we have in this supported and favoured, which ought to be to your contentment.’[169] The day broke, the people arose, opened their windows, and went out of their houses; some were going to the city. One man was about to cross the bridge, when, fancying he saw something strange, he drew near, and discovered with astonishment human limbs hanging from the tree. He shuddered, supposing that this had been done by some murderers in mere bravado; and, wishing to make the extraordinary occurrence known, he quickened his steps. ‘The first who saw this mystery did not keep it secret, but ran and told the news all through the city. “What’s the matter?” people asked ... and then everybody hurried thither,’ adds the chronicler. In truth, an immense crowd of citizens--men, women, and children--soon gathered round the tree. It was Sunday, a day which the bastard had probably selected for this edifying sight; every one was free from his ordinary occupations, and during all that holy day an agitated multitude pressed continually around the tree where the blood-stained remains of the two victims were hanging. They looked closely at them and examined the features: ‘It is Navis,’ they said; ‘it is Blanchet.’ ... ‘Ah!’ exclaimed a huguenot, ‘it is not difficult to penetrate the mystery. It is one of my lord bishop’s messages come to us by the Turin post!’ Bonivard, who had returned to Geneva, thought himself fortunate that the swiftness of his horse had carried him beyond the prelate’s reach, and rejoiced that his head was not between those of Blanchet and Navis; but he was at the same time filled with indignation and anger against the monster who had so treated his two young friends. The Genevan youth indulged in bitter irony. ‘A fine