Count Hannibal

It was late evening when, riding wearily on jaded horses, they came to

the outskirts of Angers, and saw before them the term of their journey.

The glow of sunset had faded, but the sky was still warm with the last

hues of day; and against its opal light the huge mass of the Angevin

castle, which even in sunshine rises dark and forbidding above the

Mayenne, stood up black and sharply defined. Below it, on both banks of

the river, the towers and spires of the city soared up from a sombre

huddle of ridge-roofs, broken here by a round-headed gateway, crumbling

and pigeon-haunted, that dated from St. Louis, and there by the gaunt

arms of a windmill.

The city lay dark under a light sky, keeping well its secrets. Thousands

were out of doors enjoying the evening coolness in alley and court, yet

it betrayed the life which pulsed in its arteries only by the low murmur

which rose from it. Nevertheless, the Countess at sight of its roofs

tasted the first moment of happiness which had been hers that day. She

might suffer, but she had saved. Those roofs would thank her! In that

murmur were the voices of women and children she had redeemed! At the

sight and at the thought a wave of love and tenderness swept all

bitterness from her breast. A profound humility, a boundless

thankfulness took possession of her. Her head sank lower above her

horse's mane; but this time it sank in reverence, not in shame.

Could she have known what was passing beneath those roofs which night was

blending in a common gloom--could she have read the thoughts which at

that moment paled the cheeks of many a stout burgher, whose gabled house

looked on the great square, she had been still more thankful. For in

attics and back rooms women were on their knees at that hour, praying

with feverish eyes; and in the streets men--on whom their fellows, seeing

the winding-sheet already at the chin, gazed askance--smiled, and showed

brave looks abroad, while their hearts were sick with fear.

For darkly, no man knew how, the news had come to Angers. It had been

known, more or less, for three days. Men had read it in other men's

eyes. The tongue of a scold, the sneer of an injured woman had spread

it, the birds of the air had carried it. From garret window to garret

window across the narrow lanes of the old town it had been whispered at

dead of night; at convent grilles, and in the timber-yards beside the

river. Ten thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, it was

rumoured, had perished in Paris. In Orleans, all. In Tours this man's

sister; at Saumur that man's son. Through France the word had gone forth

that the Huguenots must die; and in the busy town the same roof-tree

sheltered fear and hate, rage and cupidity. On one side of the party-

wall murder lurked fierce-eyed; on the other, the victim lay watching the

latch, and shaking at a step. Strong men tasted the bitterness of death,

and women clasping their babes to their breasts smiled sickly into

children's eyes.