Quæso, Christe rex invicte, Tu succure misero, Sub extrema mortis hora Quum jussus abiero, Nullum in me jus tyranno Præbeatur impio. I could hear the sad words but could see nothing, except that Achon had arisen, his white hands clasping the balustrade before him, and his eyes peering downward in the direction of the voices. He looked, as he stood, like some obscene bird of prey watching for his quarry to come within striking distance. There was a movement among the soldiers, who parted to make room for the doomed man, and then two by two the mournful procession came into sight, the monks before and behind the prisoner, chanting the last verse of the hymn. As they passed the gallery beneath Achon they stopped for a moment, and he leaned forward like a stooping vulture to look at Marcilly, and at that moment the morning sun came out in glorious light, and with it a fresh breeze arose. The two, destroyer and victim, faced each other, a smile of infernal malice on Achon’s face, Marcilly pale, but calm and proud. Then Achon made a slight gesture with his hand, the procession moved onward, and I boldly stepped out of my concealment, and stood behind the soldiers. No one noticed me--all eyes were on the man who was about to die. They had reached the death platform by this, the executioner had bowed to his victim, when suddenly a roar of fright and horror burst from the people, and dense volumes of smoke broke out from the galleries. There was a wild shriek of “Fire! Fire!” There was a rushing and crowding of human beings like sheep. Achon turned an alarmed face toward the galleries, when, from beneath his own stand, a black cloud of smoke came up, and the next instant the hangings had caught fire, and he was enveloped in a circle of flame. For a moment the execution was stayed. The guard gathered round the prisoner, hiding him from view; and Richelieu, springing forward, attempted to scale the steps leading to Achon’s gallery; but fell back beaten and baffled by the smoke. The uproar was indescribable; but through it all, my heart leaped as I heard the rattle of drums, and they were--my God! they were beating the _Rappel d’Aunis_. But even as I heard this, and others heard it too, we turned our eyes to the burning gallery, where Achon was alone. The sunlight hid the flames, but now and then a warm orange flash showed where they worked, and puffs of black smoke went up in long spirals to the sky. The dry wood burnt merrily, the breeze fanned the fire, and within his burning cage Achon ran to and fro like a mad animal. “Help! Help!” he shrieked. “Oh, God! Help!”