And now the sky began to whiten, and night-fire and torch to pale at the coming day. From all hands there was a murmur and hum of voices. Ghostly figures swarmed in the galleries, and the tramp of feet echoed from every side of the square. Slowly the day brightened, the hum and bustle increased, while sometimes one heard a laugh or a cry, a rough oath or a ribald jest, rise above the buzz of voices. The block was not ten paces from me, and on the opposite side was a gallery, with a balcony draped in velvet; but it was as yet unoccupied. Suddenly there came the tramp of horses’ hoofs, the clash of arms, a sharp order or two, and the space round the scaffold was filled with armed men, who were so close to me that, from where I stood in concealment, I could have touched the nearest with my hand. I heard Carouges’ voice, and then a figure stepped from his side and mounted the platform of the scaffold. It was a masked man, robed all in black, with a long, two-handed sword over his shoulder. He stood by the block, leaning on the cross-hilt of his sword, and so absorbed was I in watching him, that I fairly started as I felt a cold hand on mine, and looking down beheld Majolais. I signed to him to go, but for answer he pointed between the slits of the boards toward the gallery opposite to us. It was occupied now, and the malign countenance that looked out thence upon the morning was that of Achon. The dwarf’s face was like that of a devil; and then he suddenly and swiftly backed from me, and was gone once more. I leaned forward and watched, and, as I did so, the faint odor of something burning struck me. I glanced behind, but could make out nothing, and my attention was taken off by Carouges, as he spoke to another who stood by his side, wrapped in a long cloak. “Are none of the Court coming? Is only he to be here?” Carouges made a movement of his hand toward Achon, and it was Richelieu who answered him. “Oh! There are many in the galleries, but no royalties. They respect the dead King. However, Monsieur of Arles, though he sits there alone, is a host in himself.” “Faith! If a host, he gives his guest a grewsome banquet,” laughed the other, and then this idle talk was interrupted by a murmur from the crowd that swelled to a roar, and then died away again in a death-like silence. “He comes!” said Richelieu in a low voice, and I tightened my grip on my sword, and measured the distance for my rush to the scaffold. The silence still continued. The crowd seemed to be spellbound; and now the awful music of the death hymn fell upon our ears, and all strained forward, eager and expectant. Slowly the chant came, nearer and yet more near, louder and louder grew the solemn voices, and I could catch each word of that song of praise to the Most High, misused so blasphemously by those who called themselves His priests: