"The king's wound was slight; but my brother was beaten to the earth by the sword hilt of Guillaume de Boisguiller, a captain of the French Guards, several of whom in the first transports of their zeal and fury, burned him severely with their torches, while he lay prostrate at their feet. A fortnight after this he was tried and tortured. Shall I tell you what followed? _Tête Dieu!_ my blood boils, and my heart sickens at the memory of it. After making the _amende honorable_ in the Church of Notre Dame, he was conveyed to the Place de Grove, where vast multitudes were assembled; where every window was filled with eager faces--and every housetop bore a living freight. "The Provost of the merchants, the Echevins and other magistrates of Paris, in their robes, with all the great lords and ladies of the court, occupied the windows of the gloomy Maison aux Piliers, or Hotel de Ville, on the spire and pavilions of which banners waved as for a festival. In the square, beyond the scaffold and the troops who circled it, scarcely was there breathing space, so closely, so densely were the spectators massed; but a silence like that of death hushed every tongue, for they knew that a scene of horror was about to ensue." The Frenchman paused; the perspiration stood in bead-drops on his brow; his face was deadly pale, and I could not fail to feel deeply interested, while thinking at the same time, that the language and bearing of himself and his companion were very different from what one might expect to find in a couple of runaway privateersmen. "If, on that terrible day," he resumed, "voices were heard, it was the murmur of those at a distance--those who were too far off to see--the thousands who crowded the narrow vistas of the Rue de la Tannerie, the Rue de la Mortellarie, the Rue du Mouton, and the Quai de la Grêve, for all Paris had flocked to witness my brother's execution. "At five o'clock, just as the grey light of a dull March morning stole over the pale-faced multitude, the punishment began. My brother's right hand was half consumed by fire, and then struck off. Amid the agony, though his limb shrivelled and blood burst forth, _O mon Dieu!_ the poor soul neither winced nor asked for mercy; but when pincers, red hot and glowing, and ladles filled with boiling oil, molten lead and flaming resin, were applied to his arms, thighs, and breast, he uttered shrieks so piercing that every heart grew sick and every face grew pale. On his bones the very flesh was broiled, and his blood hissed in steam around him! He was then disembowelled." "Assuredly that must have put a period to his sufferings?" said I, in a low voice.