Protestantism in France From Death of Francis I to Edict of Nantes - James Aitken Wylie

ound its towers. Alas! before another sun shall set,
there will not be left in that city anything in which
is the breath of life. The blood of mother and
helpless babe, of stern warrior, grey patriarch, and
blooming maiden, will be blent in one red torrent,
which shall rival the Loire in depth. It is a great
sacrifice, but one demanded for the salvation of
France. By the side of the road, partly hidden by
two walnut-trees that grow on the spot, sits a figure
on horseback, waiting for the approach of some
one. He hears the sound of horses' hoofs. It is the
duke that is coming; he knows him by his white
plume; he permits him to pass, then slipping up
close behind him, discharges his pistol. The ball
entered the right shoulder of the duke--for he wore
no cuirass--and passed through the chest. The duke
bent for a moment upon his horse's mane, but
instantly resuming his erect position in the saddle,
he declared his belief that the wound was slight,
and added good-humoredly, "They owed me this."
It was soon seen, however, that the wound was
mortal, and his attendants crowding round him,
carried him to his house, and laid him on the bed
from which he was to rise no more.
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