It was a narrow affair, and escaped but by a hair in ending in bloodshed. That something of import had happened I was sure now; but as yet I could not tell what it was, and neither Achon nor Richelieu knew, too, though they guessed that trouble was afoot, and a pistol barrel gleamed in the latter’s hand, where he rode almost boot-to-saddle with the Prince. And so, on we rode, through the darkening streets, and at last we were again before the prison. Here, as elsewhere, a mob that grew in numbers each moment had gathered, as if expecting our coming; but whether it was the persuasive force in the muzzles of the Emperor’s Pistols, which leered down upon them from the walls, or whether the crowd was simply in a sullen, speechless mood, I know not. All I do know is that there was neither cry nor shout as they passed; but a murmuring that rose and sank, to rise and fall once more, like the distant voice of the sea on a level shore. And now we halted before the gates. The trumpets pealed out loudly, and the huge doors groaned back in opening, disclosing the courtyard lined with armed men, while de Bresy and Comminges stood in the archway. “You have them?” asked the former eagerly; and Richelieu answered briefly: “All but Coqueville.” As he spoke, both de Bresy and Comminges saw me, and the former said, with a forced laugh: “So it is my turn again, monsieur. This time you will find it no jest”; but Achon answered him, not I, saying chilly: “He belongs to the Holy Office, monsieur, and to none else beside.” De Bresy remained silent, and with this we entered. In the courtyard there was a little bustle as we dismounted, and, awaiting my fate, I looked around me in stony apathy. Then moved, perhaps, by the same impulse that sometimes makes a stag, wounded to death, nibble at the grass around it, I cast my eyes on the sunset, and the strangeness of it held and arrested me, in spite of myself. There was a broad red sash of light across the west, that cut abruptly, and without any gradations of tint, into the sombre gray of the sky. Against this weird background rose the brown and purple silhouettes of the houses, the white and glistening spires of Ste. Croix, and the grim keep of the palace, the Royal standard flaunting from the staff. Even as I looked it seemed to slip down a little with a jerk, and then fluttered slowly down to half-mast height. No one noticed this. All were busily engaged, and Richelieu, Achon, and the others were in earnest converse. Achon was urging something, a desperate resolve on his face; but de Bresy shook his head, his hand to the hilt of his sword, and Comminges said loudly: “No! It would be murder. We are not here for that.” Whereat Richelieu put his hand on the priest’s shoulder, saying: “Let it rest. ’Tis but a matter of hours.” Then, as if to end the colloquy, he turned to the guards, saying sharply: “Bring on the prisoners!”