The child, more confident, looked again through the window, and then, withdrawing his head, said: 

“I can not see the Cure now, because all the judges stand round him, and are looking at him, and their great robes prevent me from seeing.  There are also some Capuchins, stooping down to whisper to him.”

Curiosity attracted more people to the boy’s perch; every one was silent, waiting anxiously to catch his words, as if their lives depended on them.

“I see,” he went on, “the executioner driving four little pieces of wood between the cords, after the Capuchins have blessed the hammer and nails.  Ah, heavens!  Sister, how enraged they seem with him, because he will not speak.  Mother! mother! give me your hand, I want to come down!”

Instead of his mother, the child, upon turning round, saw only men’s faces, looking up at him with a mournful eagerness, and signing him to go on.  He dared not descend, and looked again through the window, trembling.

“Oh!  I see Father Lactantius and Father Barre themselves forcing in more pieces of wood, which squeeze his legs.  Oh, how pale he is! he seems praying.  There, his head falls back, as if he were dying!  Oh, take me away!”

And he fell into the arms of the young Advocate, of M. du Lude, and of Cinq-Mars, who had come to support him.

“Deus stetit in synagoga deorum:  in medio autem Deus dijudicat—­” chanted strong, nasal voices, issuing from the small window, which continued in full chorus one of the psalms, interrupted by blows of the hammer—­an infernal deed beating time to celestial songs.  One might have supposed himself near a smithy, except that the blows were dull, and manifested to the ear that the anvil was a man’s body.

“Silence!” said Fournier, “He speaks.  The chanting and the blows stop.”

A weak voice within said, with difficulty, “Oh, my fathers, mitigate the rigor of your torments, for you will reduce my soul to despair, and I might seek to destroy myself!”

At this the fury of the people burst forth like an explosion, echoing along the vaulted roofs; the men sprang fiercely upon the platform, thrust aside the surprised and hesitating archers; the unarmed crowd drove them back, pressed them, almost suffocated them against the walls, and held them fast, then dashed against the doors which led to the torture chamber, and, making them shake beneath their blows, threatened to drive them in; imprecations resounded from a thousand menacing voices and terrified the judges within.

“They are gone; they have taken him away!” cried a man who had climbed to the little window.

The multitude at once stopped short, and changing the direction of their steps, fled from this detestable place and spread rapidly through the streets, where an extraordinary confusion prevailed.

Night had come on during the long sitting, and the rain was pouring in torrents.  The darkness was terrifying.  The cries of women slipping on the pavement or driven back by the horses of the guards; the shouts of the furious men; the ceaseless tolling of the bells which had been keeping time with the strokes of the question;