We rode on, the men in an awestruck silence, and even I forgetful of myself in the horror of the thing that had happened. And yet, swift and awful as Le Brun’s fate was, it was merciful to that which every day men, women, children, yea! even babes, had to suffer in the years of the War of the Religions. The times had turned men’s hearts to stone, and life, the life God gave us, was of less value than the dust beneath our feet. But I was not then old enough to be callous, and I never became so. The long years of my seclusion have prevented me from being hardened to scenes like these. And as I thought of Richelieu and his terrible deed I began to see how far, how irrevocably, I had fallen. Black as his shield was, it was starred by the fires of a dauntless courage. Cruel as he was, his word was inviolate, and there were times, too, when no knight of old could have borne himself more gallantly. None knew that better than I. And I shivered and shrank in my soul with the cowardice of guilt as I thought how even he, evil among the evil, had turned from me in contempt and loathing. So I rode on, my bitter thoughts preventing me feeling all pain from my bonds, my own self-reproach making me callous to the scorn that was ever and again glanced at me, and the tramp of hoofs, the jingle of chain-bits, and the clank of scabbards made a sad accompaniment to the riot in my mind. At last, a few minutes after sunset, in the brief interval when the winter twilight hung before the gray of the night, we reached the city gates. They were shut, but the officer on guard, the same Italian whom we had met when Marcilly and I entered Orleans, opened them as we came up, and a short conversation ensued between him and the leaders of our party. At first I could hear nothing; but as the prisoners were massed up, I was brought close to the speakers, and saw that Achon’s face was clouded and full of misgiving. “Four couriers, did you say, Carandini?” “Monsieur--and there are already some on the part of the Constable who have reached the palace. ’Tis said that he himself lies just outside the Portereau.” Then a word or two were exchanged in low tones between Richelieu and Achon, and the former called a subaltern officer. “Carouges--take half the men, and escort the Princess and her suite to the Jacobins. You will keep them under careful guard. There must be no time allowed for leave-takings. We look after the others.” The order was obeyed to the letter; not but that Marie obtained a moment’s speech with Achon. “Monsieur,” she said, “I pray you let me join my husband. The favor I ask is so small. In mercy grant it.” And he looked at her with a cruel light in his eye, while the mark that my hand had made on his face seemed to grow darker, as he said: “You will join him later on, madame--he is in the arms of the Holy Office.”