Count Hannibal

Tavannes, his hands on the ledge of the shattered window, leaned out

laughing, and followed them with his eyes. A moment, and the mob was

gone, the street was empty; and one by one, with sheepish faces, his

pikemen emerged from the doorways and alleys in which they had taken

refuge. They gathered about the three huddled forms which lay prone and

still in the gutter: or, not three--two. For even as they approached

them, one, the priest, rose slowly and giddily to his feet. He turned a

face bleeding, lean, and relentless towards the window at which Tavannes

stood. Solemnly, with the sign of the cross, and with uplifted hands, he

cursed him in bed and at board, by day and by night, in walking, in

riding, in standing, in the day of battle, and at the hour of death. The

pikemen fell back appalled, and hid their eyes; and those who were of the

north crossed themselves, and those who came from the south bent two

fingers horse-shoe fashion. But Hannibal de Tavannes laughed; laughed in

his moustache, his teeth showing, and bade them move that carrion to a

distance, for it would smell when the sun was high. Then he turned his

back on the street, and looked into the room.