"It is hard," said he to the Duc d'Orléans, "not to be civil to men who are about to die." The two other grand stands were filled by invited guests, by courtiers, and the attendants on their Majesties; in short, the rank and fashion of the château from Blois, who thus rushed from festivities to executions, just as they afterwards rushed from the pleasures of Court life to the perils of war, with a readiness which to foreigners will always be one of the mainsprings of their policy in France. The poor Syndic of the Furriers' Guild felt the keenest joy at failing to discern his son among the fifty-seven gentlemen condemned to death. At a signal from the Duc de Guise, the clerk, from the top of the scaffold, called out at once, in a loud voice: "Jean-Louis-Albéric, Baron de Raunay, guilty of heresy, of the crime of high treason, and of bearing arms against the King's Majesty." A tall, handsome man mounted the scaffold with a firm step, bowed to the people and to the Court, and said: "The indictment is false; I bore arms to deliver the King from his enemies of Lorraine!" He laid his head on the block, and it fell. The Reformers sang: Thou, Lord, hast proved our faith And searched our soul's desire, And purified our froward hearts, As silver proved by fire. "Robert-Jean-René Briquemaut, Comte de Villemongis, guilty of high treason and rebellion against the King," cried the Recorder. The Count dipped his hands in the Baron de Raunay's blood, and said: "May this blood be on the head of those who are truly guilty!" The Reformers sang on: Thou, Lord, hast led our feet Where foes had laid their snare; To Thee, O Lord, the glory be, Though we should perish there. "Confess, my lord Nuncio," said the Prince de Condé, "that if French gentlemen know how to plot, they also know how to die." "What hatred you are entailing on the heads of your children, brother," said the Duchesse de Guise to the Cardinal de Lorraine. "The sight makes me feel sick," said the young King, who had turned pale at the sight of all this bloodshed. "Pooh! Rebels!" said Catherine de' Medici. Still the hymn went on, still the axe was plied. At last the sublime spectacle of men who could die singing, and, above all, the impression produced on the crowd by the gradual dwindling of the voices, became stronger than the terror inspired by the Guises. "Mercy!" cried the mob, when they heard at last only the feeble chant of a single victim, reserved till the last, as being the most important. He was standing alone at the foot of the steps leading up to the scaffold, and sang: Lord, help us in our need! Lord, bless us with Thy grace! And on the saints in sore distress Let shine Thy glorious face!