He boasted sonorously of his achievements in battle.
"And the scar on your forehead," I heard her say, as she inspected his
visage with a coquettish side glance; "at what battle did you get that?"
His reply was uttered in a voice whose rancorous fierceness must have set
the maid trembling.
"In the battle of the Rue Etienne," he said, "which was fought between
myself and a hell-born Papist, on St. Bartholomew's night, in 1572. From
the next house-roof, I had seen Coligny's body thrown, bleeding, from his
own window into his courtyard, for I was one of those who were with him
when his murderers came, and whom he ordered to flee. I ran from roof to
roof, hoping to reach a house where a number of Huguenots were, that I
might lead them back to avenge the admiral's murder. I dropped to the
street and ran around a corner straight into the arms of one of the
butchers employed by the Duke of Guise that night to decorate the streets
of Paris with the best blood in France. Seeing that I did not wear the
white cross on my arm, he was good enough to give me this red mark on my
forehead. But in those days I was quick at repartee, and I gave him a
similar mark on a similar place. Then I was knocked down from behind, and
when I awoke it was the next day. The dogs had thought me dead. As for
the man who gave me this mark, I have not seen him since, but for
thirteen years I have prayed hard to the bountiful Father in Heaven to
bring us together again some day, and the good God in His infinite
kindness will surely do so!"
Now and then mademoiselle turned in her saddle to look behind.
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