From out the blackness of his mask Marcilly glanced at me, and our eyes met for an instant as he asked: “And is that known? We, who come from the south, heard that he would not die.” “All the world knows it,” replied our man; “the barricades, and galleries for the spectators are even now ready in the Martroi, as you will see--but we talk of dangerous things, messieurs, and we have reached the quay. Ah! Thanks! This will buy a brave petticoat for my little Lardille.” CHAPTER XI THE CITY OF THE MAID IN four steps we were on the white, glistening quay, and, mounting our horses, began to edge toward the nearest gate, the Porte Royale, by which we proposed to enter the city. It was a task that was far from easy, unless we wished to ride over the heads of the people, for the small space was more than crowded, and one and all were pushing, struggling, and hurrying to be on the scene of the execution in time. “Ah!” said Marcilly, standing in his stirrups, and from the height of his horse looking over the heads of the people, “it is awful--he dies by the Estrapade.” I followed his glance, and, gazing toward the little enclosure in front of the Rue des Tanneurs, saw the post and chains, and the stack of wood that was to form the pyre. “The patient has not arrived as yet; but the galleries are full.” “Yes, one can see the dresses of the ladies flashing like a bank of flowers. Hear the crowd bark!” And as he spoke there was a rush to the palisades, and groans, hoots, cat-calls, and a tempest of mob-cries arose as the people were driven back, and beaten into order by the men-at-arms, while through the shouts, the cries, the oaths and the screams, one heard ever and again the guttural voice of the reiter, or the snake-like, hissing curse of the Italian free-lance, as, with the butts of their lances, and the heels of their horses, they bore the crowd now this way and now that, and threw something of their own perfect discipline into the chaotic mass. And as I looked I felt a thrill of horror at the thought of what the unfortunate condemned was to endure ere death would end his agony. The Estrapade--it was the lifting in and out of a slow fire--and death took long to come with this. And all this pain! All this suffering! Because, forsooth, the wretched man had not bowed to the graven image of the Virgin and her Child! Truly, a fit sacrifice to One who sent His Son with the message of love and forgiveness to earth! I thank God I never saw him. He was led to his death by the Quatre Fils, and, poor cobbler though he was, he ended his life like a hero and a saint. But six years later he was avenged, on that day when the gutters of Orleans ran in red puddles, and Lanoy pulled down the towers of Ste. Croix in memory of Étienne Caillaud. That, too, I never saw, for it was six years after my living death. “Onward!” said Marcilly, “else we shall be unable to move. Ah! See the cubs of Guise!”