‘Stop her! bring her back!’ cried Diane from behind.  ’It is Mdlle.  De Nil-de-Merle!’

’No, no!  My husband is Huguenot!  I am a Huguenot!  Let them kill me, I say!’—­struggling with Diane, who had now come up with her, and was trying to draw her back.

‘Puir lassie!’ muttered the stout Scotsman to himself, ’this fearsome night has driven her demented.’

But, like a true sentinel, he moved neither hand nor foot to interfere, as shaking herself loose from Diane, she was springing down the steps into the court, when at that moment the young Abbe de Mericour was seen advancing, pale, breathless, horrorstruck, and to him Diane shrieked to arrest the headlong course.  He obeyed, seeing the wild distraction of the white face and widely glaring eyes, took her by both hands, and held her in a firm grasp, saying, ‘Alas, lady, you cannot go out.  It is no sight for any one.’

‘They are killing the Protestants,’ she said; ’I am one!  Let me find them and die.’

A strong effort to free herself ensued, but it was so suddenly succeeded by a swoon that the Abbe could scarcely save her from dropping on the steps.  Diane begged him to carry her in, since they were in full view of men-at-arms in the court, and, frightful to say, of some of the ladies of the palace, who, in the frenzy of that dreadful time, had actually come down to examine the half-stripped corpses of the men with whom they had jested not twelve hours before.

‘Ah! it is no wonder,’ said the youthful Abbe, as he tenderly lifted the inanimate figure.  ’This has been a night of horrors.  I was coming in haste to know whether the King knows of this frightful plot of M. de Guise, and the bloody work that is passing in Paris.’

‘The King!’ exclaimed Diane.  ’M. l’Abbe, do you know where he is now?  In the balcony overlooking the river, taking aim at the fugitives!  Take care!  Even your soutane would not save you if M. d’O and his crew heard you.  But I must pray you to aid me with this poor child!  I dread that her wild cries should be heard.’

The Abbe, struck dumb with horror, silently obeyed Mdlle.  De Ribaumont, and brought the still insensible Eustacie to the chamber, now deserted by all the young ladies.  He laid her on her bed, and finding he could do no more, left her to her cousin and her maid.

The poor child had been unwell and feverish ever since the masque, and the suspense of these few days with the tension of that horrible night had prostrated her.  She only awoke from her swoon to turn her head from the light and refuse to be spoken to.

‘But, Eustacie, child, listen; this is all in vain—­he lives,’ said Diane.

‘Weary me not with falsehoods,’ faintly said Eustacie.

‘No! no! no!  They meant to hinder your flight, but—–­’

‘They knew of it?’ cried Eustacie, sitting up suddenly.  ’Then you told them.  Go—­go; let me never see you more!  You have been his death!’