stupefied host could only point toward the splintered window frame.
Through this the men scrambled, and presently their yells died away in
the distance.

A young man of ruddy countenance, his body clothed in the garments of a
gentleman's lackey, stooped and gathered up the cloak.

"Holy Virgin!" he murmured, his eyes bulging, "there can not be two
cloaks like this in Paris; it's the very same."

He crushed it under his arm and in the general confusion gained the
alley, took to his legs, and became a moving black shadow in the grey.
He made off toward the Seine.


Meanwhile terror stalked in the corridors of the hôtel. Lights flashed
from window to window. The court was full of servants and mercenaries.
For the master lay dead in the corridor above. A beautiful young
woman, dressed in her night-robes, her feet in slippers, hair
disordered and her eyes fixed with horror, gazed down at the lifeless
shape. The stupor of sleep still held her in its dulling grasp. She
could not fully comprehend the tragedy. Her ladies wailed about her,
but she heeded them not. It was only when the captain of the military
household approached her that she became fully aroused. She pressed
her hand against her madly beating heart.

[Illustration: She pressed her hands against her madly beating heart.]

"Who did this?" she asked.