"BAVILLE! UN MAGISTRAT DONT LES EPOUVANTABLES RIGUEURS DOIVENT êTRE SIGNALéES à L'HORREUR DE LA POSTéRITé."--SISMONDI.

Night was near at hand again and all were gone--all except Martin Ashurst and the pastor, both of whom sat now upon the bridge of Montvert, their eyes fixed always on the crest of the hill which rose between the little town and the larger one of Alais. For it was from that situation that they expected to see at last the flash of sabres carried by the dragoons of de Broglie and the foot soldiers of de Peyre, Lieutenant General of the Province, to observe the rays of the setting sun flicker on their embrowned musketoon and fusil barrels, and to hear the ring of bridle chain and stirrup iron. That they would come on the instant that the intelligence reached Baville of what had been done in Montvert over night it was impossible to doubt. And then--well, then, possibly, since there were no human beings left to be destroyed except these two men waiting there, the village would itself be demolished, burned to the ground. Such vengeance had been taken only a week ago on a similarly deserted bourg from which the inhabitants had fled, though silently and without revolt. It might be expected that the same would happen here.

All were gone, the men, the women and children; the old, the feeble, and the babes being carried by the stronger ones, or conveyed on the backs of mules and asses. Also the cattle were removed--they would be priceless in the mountain fastnesses; even the dogs had followed at their masters' heels; upon those masters' shoulders and upon the backs of the animals the household gods, the little gifts that had come to them on marriage days and feast days, on christenings and anniversaries, had been transported.

The place was deserted except for those two men who sat there wondering what would be their lot.

That vengeance would be taken on them neither deemed likely; but that both would be haled before Baville they both felt sure. Buscarlet was known to be one of the Protestant pastors who, from the day when the Revocation of Nantes was promulgated seventeen years before, had fought strongly against his congregation attending the Romish masses as the Government had ordered them to do. He was a man in evil odour, though against him until the present time no overt act could be charged. But now--now after the events of the past night, with those dead Things lying there behind the hedge, what might he not be accused of?

"Yet," said Martin, as he leaned over the parapet of the bridge, glancing sometimes up at the ridge which rose between Montvert and Alais, expecting every moment to see the soldiers approaching, and sometimes watching the long weeds in the river as they bent beneath its swift flow, "yet of what can you be accused? You interceded for him," and he directed his eyes in the direction of the dead abbé, where he lay covered by a cloth, "besought them to show mercy, to return evil for good. Also those men, those attroupés, were not of this village nor of your flock. As well call you to account for the invasion of a hostile army or foreign levy."

But again Buscarlet only shook his head, then answered:

"No, not of this village, nor of my congregation, but of the same faith--Protestants! Therefore accursed in Baville's and his master's eyes. That is enough."

As he spoke, from far up in the heights toward Alais they heard the blare of a trumpet ring loudly and clearly on the soft evening air; a moment later and, on the white road that ran like a thread through the green slopes, they saw the scarlet coats of the horsemen gleaming; saw, too, a guidon blown out as its rider came forward against the wind; caught the muffled sound of innumerable horses' hoofs. Then, next, heard orders shouted, and a moment later saw a large body of dragoons winding down the hillside slowly, while behind them on foot came the milices of the province.

"You see?" Martin said as he watched them. "Be calm. They can do you no harm."

And he leaned over the bridge again and continued to observe the oncomers.

Ahead of the main body, consisting of some hundred of cavalry and an even larger number of Languedoc milice or train bands, there rode three men abreast. In the middle was one clad in a sober riding dress of dark gray; the others on either side of him were rich in scarlet coats much guarded with galloon, the evening sun flickering on the lace and causing it to sparkle like burnished gold, and with large laced three-cornered hats in which also their gold cockades shone, while he on the left wore the rich justaucorps à brevet, a sure sign not of a soldier of France alone, but of a soldier of high social rank and standing.

"He in the middle," said Buscarlet, "is Baville, the Scourge of the Scourge. Be sure that when he comes with the soldiery the worst is to be dreaded. That he deems his presence is necessary to insure fitting vengeance being taken."

"Fear not," said Martin. "They can not execute us here to-night; afterward, inquiry will show that we have done nothing to deserve their vengeance. Be calm."

Amid clouds of dust from the road on which no rain had fallen for many days the cavalcade came onward, reaching at last the farther end of the bridge from where these two men stood side by side; then the officer on the right gave the orders for all following to halt, and slowly he with the other two rode on to the bridge itself and up the slope to where Buscarlet and Martin stood.

"It is the Lieutenant General, de Peyre," Buscarlet whispered. "The other is the Marquis du Chaila, the dead man's nephew. O God! what a sight for him to see!"

"What has been done here?" said Baville, looking down at the two men on foot who stood close by where they had halted their horses, though not until he and his companions had turned their eyes to the burned house, from which little spiral wreaths of smoke rose vertically in the calm evening air. "What? And who, messieurs, are you?"

The quiet tones of his full rich voice, the absence of all harshness in it, almost startled Martin Ashurst. Was this the man, he wondered--or could the pastor have been mistaken?--of whose cruelty to the Protestants as well as his fierce and overbearing nature not only all the province rang, but also other parts of the land far remote from here? The man whose name was known and mentioned with loathing by the refugees in Holland and Switzerland, in Canterbury and Spitalfields?

"Who are you, messieurs?" he repeated quietly, "though I think I should know you, at least," and he directed his glance to the pastor. "Monsieur André Buscarlet, prédicateur of the--the--so-called Reformed Religion, if I am not mistaken."

"André Buscarlet," the old man replied, looking up at him; and now, Martin observed, he trembled no more, but answered fearlessly, "Protestant minister of Montvert and----"

"Where," exclaimed the young Marquis du Chaila, "my uncle has been barbarously murdered by you and your brood. Oh, fear not, you shall pay dearly for it. Where, vagabond, is his body?"

"Sir," said Martin, speaking for the first time, "your grief carries you into violent extremes. This gentleman whom you term 'vagabond' has had no part nor share in your uncle's murder. Neither has his flock. The deed was done by the refugees from the mountains. Monsieur Buscarlet attempted in vain to prevent it."

"Bah!" exclaimed the marquis. "You are another Protestant, I should suppose. Valuable testimony! Who are you?"

"One who at least is not answerable to you. Suffice it that no person in this village had any hand in the abbé's murder, that it was done by the men of whom the pastor speaks."

"To me, monsieur, at least all persons are answerable," Baville interposed. "I am the king's Intendant. I must demand your name and standing."

"My name is----" he began, yet ere he could tell it a shout from the foremost dragoons who had dismounted startled all on the bridge. Some of these men had been engaged in tethering their horses close ............