“Stop here!” said one of them to his suite; “this is the place.”

The sombre air and the silence of these spectators contrasted with the gay and anxious looks of the girls, and their childish exclamations.

“Ah, the fine procession!” they cried; “there are at least five hundred men with cuirasses and red uniforms, upon fine horses.  They’ve got yellow feathers in their large hats.”

“They are strangers—­Catalonians,” said a French guard.

“Whom are they conducting here?  Ah, here is a fine gilt coach! but there’s no one in it.”

“Ah!  I see three men on foot; where are they going?”

“To death!” said Fontrailles, in a deep, stern voice which silenced all around.  Nothing was heard but the slow tramp of the horses, which suddenly stopped, from one of those delays that happen in all processions.  They then beheld a painful and singular spectacle.  An old man with a tonsured head walked with difficulty, sobbing violently, supported by two young men of interesting and engaging appearance, who held one of each other’s hands behind his bent shoulders, while with the other each held one of his arms.  The one on the left was dressed in black; he was grave, and his eyes were cast down.  The other, much younger, was attired in a striking dress.  A pourpoint of Holland cloth, adorned with broad gold lace, and with large embroidered sleeves, covered him from the neck to the waist, somewhat in the fashion of a woman’s corset; the rest of his vestments were in black velvet, embroidered with silver palms.  Gray boots with red heels, to which were attached golden spurs; a scarlet cloak with gold buttons—­all set off to advantage his elegant and graceful figure.  He bowed right and left with a melancholy smile.

An old servant, with white moustache, and beard, followed with his head bent down, leading two chargers, richly comparisoned.  The young ladies were silent; but they could not restrain their sobs.

“It is, then, that poor old man whom they are leading to the scaffold,” they exclaimed; “and his children are supporting him.”

“Upon your knees, ladies,” said a man, “and pray for him!”

“On your knees,” cried Gondi, “and let us pray that God will deliver him!”

All the conspirators repeated, “On your knees! on your knees!” and set the example to the people, who imitated them in silence.

“We can see his movements better now,” said Gondi, in a whisper to Montresor.  “Stand up; what is he doing?”

“He has stopped, and is speaking on our side, saluting us; I think he has recognized us.”

Every house, window, wall, roof, and raised platform that looked upon the place was filled with persons of every age and condition.

The most profound silence prevailed throughout the immense multitude.  One might have heard the wings of a gnat, the breath of the slightest wind, the passage of the grains of dust which it raised; yet the air was calm, the sun brilliant, the sky blue.  The people listened attentively.  They were close to the Place des Terreaux; they heard the blows of the hammer upon the planks, then the voice of Cinq-Mars.