Prostrate on it lay a woman, a young woman, with hair like red gold falling about her neck, and skin like milk.

I did not know whether she was alive or dead; but I noticed that one arm stuck out stiffly and the crowd flying before the sudden impact of the horses must have passed over her, even if she had escaped the iron hoofs which followed.

Still in the fleeting glance I had of her as my horse bounded aside, I saw no wound or disfigurement.

Her one arm was cast about the priest's breast; her face was hidden on it.

But for all that, I knew her--knew her, shuddering for the woman whose badges I was even now wearing, whose gift I bore at my side; and I remembered the priest's vaunt of a few hours before, made in her presence, "There is no man in Paris shall thwart me to-night!" It had been a vain boast indeed! No hand in all that host of thousands was more feeble than his now: for good or ill! No brain more dull, no voice less heeded.