I glanced at Blaise,
who had heard enough to acquaint him with the situation, and whose
open-eyed face had taken on an expression of alertness and amazement
comical to behold. He, too, had mechanically clutched the handle of his
sword. Neither of us moving or speaking, we both listened. But the
governor's next words were drowned by the noise that came from outside,
as the landlord opened the front door to reenter the inn. La Chatre's
men, now supplied with wine, had taken up a song with whose words and
tune we were well acquainted.
"Hang every heretic high,
Where the crows and pigeons pass!
Let the brood of Calvin die;
Long live the mass!
A plague on the Huguenots, ah!
Let the cry of battle ring:
Huguenots, Huguenots, Huguenots, ah!
Long live the king!"
The singers uttered the word "Huguenots," and the exclamation "ah," with
an expression of loathing and scorn which could have been equalled only
by the look of defiance and hate that suddenly alighted on the face of
Blaise. He gave a deep gulp, as if forcing back, for safety, some
answering cry that rose from his breast and sought exit. Then he ground
his teeth, and through closed lips emitted from his throat a low growl,
precisely like that of a pugnacious dog held in restraint.
The landlord closed the door, and the song of La Chatre's men sank into a
rudely melodious murmur. The host then went out by a rear door, and the
governor resumed the conversation.
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