Civil war now raged with increased fury all over France. Although the two main armies did not again come into collision, there were little partisan campaigns in every province and almost every large town. It was during this period that Nismes became the theatre of that terrible tragedy known as the _Michelade_, from its occurring at the feast of St. Michael in 1567. The new doctrines had made such progress in the old Roman city that, in the year 1562, the municipal council decided that the cathedral with some other churches should be made over to the Reformed, and farther ordered the bells of the convents to be cast into cannon, the convents to be let “for the good of the state,” the relics and their shrines to be sold, and the non-conforming priests to leave the city. Damville, governor of Languedoc, and second son of the Constable Montmorency, was sent to Nismes to restore order, which he succeeded in doing by severe and arbitrary measures. At Uzès, a person named Mouton having ventured to blame these high-handed proceedings, was taken and hanged on the spot without any form of trial.[401] If such was the beginning, we may imagine what the Reformed had to suffer afterward. At length a trifling circumstance led to an explosion. About six in the morning of the 30th September, 1567, the second day of St. Michael’s fair, some Albanians belonging to Damville’s guard, lounging outside the city gates, stopped several women bringing vegetables to market, and in mere wantonness upset the baskets and trampled upon their contents. There was an immediate uproar: the women screamed, the neighbors ran to their assistance, and the crowd was swelled by the peasants coming from the country, at whose menacing gestures the foreigners drew their swords to defend themselves. On a sudden there was a shout: “To arms! to arms! Kill the Papists!” Hundreds rushed out of their houses and collected on the esplanade. The Consul Gui Rochette tried to calm them, but they violently rejected his prudent advice. When the news of the tumult reached the bishop he exclaimed: “This is the prince of darkness! blessed be the holy name of Heaven!” and then knelt down in prayer, momentarily expecting martyrdom. He succeeded, however, in escaping from the mob, who, in their angry disappointment, sacked his palace and killed the vicar-general. A number of Catholics, including the consul and his brother, had been shut up in the cellars of the episcopal residence. About an hour before midnight they were dragged out and led into that grey old court-yard, where the imagination can still detect the traces of that cruel massacre.[402] One by one the victims came forth; a few steps, and they fell pierced by sword or pike. Some struggled with their murderers, and tried to escape, but only prolonged their agony. By the dim light of a few torches between seventy and eighty unhappy wretches were butchered in cold blood, and their bodies, some only half-dead, were thrown into the