"_Vive le Roi_!" They heard it outside--the multitude who thronged the stairways, the courtyards, and the Place de Greve. And they too yelled with brazen lungs, and the roar of their voices came to us through the open windows, with the sunbeams that lit the shadows of the vast and gloomy hall. Never did subjects hail their king in a moment more sad. Ferrieres had sunk back in a crumpled heap, and mademoiselle was leaning over him in womanly sympathy; but the guards thrust her aside, and held up the dying man once more to hear, if he could, his sentence. The tumult sank away, and once more there was silence. La Valentinois sat still, watching the prisoners behind her fan; and then De Mouchy, in a speech that was dignified and impressive even to me who knew the unheard-of guilt of the man, passed the last sentence of the law. The sin of the prisoners was amply proved. It was against the King, and, he bent his head, against the Church of God. The King had already shown his mercy--all men had seen and felt it--but the wrath of God had shown itself in the disasters that had smitten the land, and France must be purged clean of the sin of heresy. As for the judge, the laws, and, in chief, the Edict of Compiegne, gave him no power to mitigate the punishment of wretches so guilty as these who stood now before him. And so Diane, Demoiselle de Paradis, and Jean, Sieur de Ferrieres, were condemned to be drawn two days hence on hurdles to the Place Maubert, there to suffer the greater torture and the less, and there to have their bodies consumed by fire, as Almighty God would hereafter consume their souls. And then, amidst an awed hush, the blasphemer who sat upon the judgment seat made a sign to the guards to remove the prisoners, and, bending down, began slowly to gather up his papers. As the terrible words fell from De Mouchy's lips I was for the moment overcome, and the immense hall seemed to swim before me, so that I had to support myself by holding to the railings of the gallery. La Valentinois had risen, and was leaning forward looking hard at Diane, as if expecting some cry, some appeal for mercy; but at the last words of De Mouchy mademoiselle had bent her head in silent prayer, and then her calm, pure eyes met those of the wicked woman before her, and rested on her for a moment with a grave pity in them, as she said in a clear voice: "Madame, God has already taken one of us beyond your reach." And she pointed to Ferrieres. "As for me, His mercy will come to me too, I pray; and may He forgive you as I, who am to die, forgive you now."