But the dawn was growing, the sun was about to rise.

Soon the day would be here, giving up the lurking fugitive whom darkness, more pitiful, had spared, and stamping with legality the horrors that night had striven to hide.
And with day, with the full light, killing would grow more easy, escape more hard.

Already they were killing on the bridge where the rich goldsmiths lived, on the wharves, on the river.

They were killing at the Louvre, in the courtyard under the King's eyes, and below the windows of the Medicis.

They were killing in St.Martin and St.Denis and St.
Antoine; wherever hate, or bigotry, or private malice impelled the hand.
From the whole city went up a din of lamentation, and wrath, and foreboding.