The houses were packed to bursting--a blur of white faces could be seen at the windows, and every entry seemed to be alive with silent men.

But in the streets there was scarcely a soul except priests, flitting from door to door, even stumbling against his horse in their preoccupation.

Black, brown, and grey crows, they made Paris like Cartagena.

The man's face took a very grim set as he watched these birds of ill omen.

What in God's name had befallen his honest France ?...