At this moment a terrible shriek sounded from beyond the wall of the courtyard; the Abbe arose in terror, as did Cinq-Mars.

“It is the cry of a woman,” said the old man.

“’Tis heartrending!” exclaimed Cinq-Mars.  “What is it?” he asked his people, who had all rushed out into the courtyard.

They answered that they heard nothing further.

“Well, well,” said the Abbe, “make no noise.”  He then shut the window, and put his hands before his eyes.

“Ah, what a cry was that, my son!” he said, with his face of an ashy paleness—­“what a cry!  It pierced my very soul; some calamity has happened.  Ah, holy Virgin! it has so agitated me that I can talk with you no more.  Why did I hear it, just as I was speaking to you of your future career?  My dear child, may God bless you!  Kneel!”

Cinq-Mars did as he was desired, and knew by a kiss upon his head that he had been blessed by the old man, who then raised him, saying: 

“Go, my son, the time is advancing; they might find you with me.  Go, leave your people and horses here; wrap yourself in a cloak, and go; I have much to write ere the hour when darkness shall allow me to depart for Italy.”

They embraced once more, promising to write to each other, and Henri quitted the house.  The Abby, still following him with his eyes from the window, cried: 

“Be prudent, whatever may happen,” and sent him with his hands one more paternal blessing, saying, “Poor child! poor child!”

CHAPTER IV

THE TRIAL

        Oh, vendetta di Dio, quanto to dei
        Esser temuta da ciascun che legge
        Cio, che fu manifesto agli occhi miei.—­Dante.

Notwithstanding the custom of having secret trials, freely countenanced by Richelieu, the judges of the Cure of Loudun had resolved that the court should be open to the public; but they soon repented this measure.  They were all interested in the destruction of Urbain Grandier; but they desired that the indignation of the country should in some degree sanction the sentence of death they had received orders to pass and to carry into effect.

Laubardemont was a kind of bird of prey, whom the Cardinal always let loose when he required a prompt and sure agent for his vengeance; and on this occasion he fully justified the choice that had been made of him.  He committed but one error—­that of allowing a public trial, contrary to the usual custom; his object had been to intimidate and to dismay.  He dismayed, indeed, but he created also a feeling of indignant horror.