Gosson had not been tried, his case being reserved for the morrow.
Meantime, the short autumnal day had drawn to a close.

A wild, stormy, rainy night then set in, but still the royalist party--citizens and soldiers intermingled--all armed to the teeth, and uttering fierce cries, while the whole scene was fitfully illuminated with the glare of flambeaux and blazing tar-barrels, kept watch in the open square around the city hall.

A series of terrible Rembrandt-like nightpieces succeeded--grim, fantastic, and gory.

Bertoul, an old man, who for years had so surely felt himself predestined to his present doom that he had kept a gibbet in his own house to accustom himself to the sight of the machine, was led forth the first, and hanged at ten in the evening.

He was a good man, of perfectly blameless life, a sincere Catholic, but a warm partisan of Orange.
Valentine de Mordacq, an old soldier, came from the Hotel de Ville to the gallows at midnight.