This reminds me too of the single act of kindness we were able to perform.  We found ourselves suddenly, on turning a corner, amid a gang of seven or eight soldiers, who had stopped and surrounded a handsome boy, apparently about fourteen.  He wore a scholar’s gown, and had some books under his arm, to which he clung firmly —­though only perhaps by instinct—­notwithstanding the furious air of the men who were threatening him with death.  They were loudly demanding his name, as we paused opposite them.  He either could not or would not give it, but said several times in his fright that he was going to the College of Burgundy.  Was he a Catholic? they cried.  He was silent.  With an oath the man who had hold of his collar lifted up his pike, and naturally the lad raised the books to guard his face.  A cry broke from Croisette.  We rushed forward to stay the blow.

“See! see!” he exclaimed loudly, his voice arresting the man’s arm in the very act of falling.  “He has a Mass Book!  He has a Mass Book!  He is not a heretic!  He is a Catholic!”

The fellow lowered his weapon, and sullenly snatched the books.  He looked at them stupidly with bloodshot wandering eyes, the red cross on the vellum bindings, the only thing he understood.  But it was enough for him; he bid the boy begone, and released him with a cuff and an oath.

Croisette was not satisfied with this, though I did not understand his reason; only I saw him exchange a glance with the lad.  “Come, come!” he said lightly.  “Give him his books!  You do not want them!”

But on that the men turned savagely upon us.  They did not thank us for the part we had already taken; and this they thought was going too far.  They were half drunk and quarrelsome, and being two to one, and two over, began to flourish their weapons in our faces.  Mischief would certainly have been done, and very quickly, had not an unexpected ally appeared on our side.

“Put up! put up!” this gentleman cried in a boisterous voice—­ he was already in our midst.  “What is all this about?  What is the use of fighting amongst ourselves, when there is many a bonny throat to cut, and heaven to be gained by it! put up, I say!”

“Who are you?” they roared in chorus.

“The Duke of Guise!” he answered coolly.  “Let the gentlemen go, and be hanged to you, you rascals!”

The man’s bearing was a stronger argument than his words, for I am sure that a stouter or more reckless blade never swaggered in church or street.  I knew him instantly, and even the crew of butchers seemed to see in him their master.  They hung back a few curses at him, but having nothing to gain they yielded.  They threw down the books with contempt—­showing thereby their sense of true religion; and trooped off roaring, “TUES!  TUES!  Aux Huguenots!” at the top of their voices.

The newcomer thus left with us was Bure—­Blaise Bure—­the same who only yesterday, though it seemed months and months back, had lured us into Bezers’ power.  Since that moment we had not seen him.  Now he had wiped off part of the debt, and we looked at him, uncertain whether to reproach him or no.  He, however, was not one whit abashed, but returned our regards with a not unkindly leer.