He knew now that he had made a mistake, that he had entered the wrong house; and naturally his impulse was to continue his descent and secure his retreat.  But the pause had brought the two men who had entered face to face with him, and they showed no signs of giving way.  On the contrary.

“The room is above, Monsieur,” the foremost said, in a matter-of-fact tone, and with a slight salutation.  “After you, if you please,” and he signed to him to return.

He was a burly man, grim and truculent in appearance, and his follower was like him.  Tignonville hesitated, then turned and ascended.  But as soon as he had reached the landing where they could pass him, he turned again.

“I have made a mistake, I think,” he said.  “I have entered the wrong house.”

“Are you for the house next the Golden Maid, Monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Rue Cinq Diamants, Quarter of the Boucherie?”

“Yes.”

“No mistake, then,” the stout man replied firmly.  “You are early, that is all.  You have arms, I see.  Maillard!”—­to the person whose voice Tignonville had heard at the head of the stairs—­“A white sleeve, and a cross for Monsieur’s hat, and his name on the register.  Come, make a beginning!  Make a beginning, man.”

“To be sure, Monsieur.  All is ready.”

“Then lose no time, I say.  Here are others, also early in the good cause.  Gentlemen, welcome!  Welcome all who are for the true faith!  Death to the heretics!  ‘Kill, and no quarter!’ is the word to-night!”

“Death to the heretics!” the last comers cried in chorus.  “Kill and no quarter!  At what hour, M. le Prevot?”

“At daybreak,” the Provost answered importantly.  “But have no fear, the tocsin will sound.  The King and our good man M. de Guise have all in hand.  A white sleeve, a white cross, and a sharp knife shall rid Paris of the vermin!  Gentlemen of the quarter, the word of the night is ’Kill, and no quarter!  Death to the Huguenots!’”

“Death!  Death to the Huguenots!  Kill, and no quarter!” A dozen—­the room was beginning to fill—­waved their weapons and echoed the cry.

Tignonville had been fortunate enough to apprehend the position—­and the peril in which he stood—­before Maillard advanced to him bearing a white linen sleeve.  In the instant of discovery his heart had stood a moment, the blood had left his cheeks; but with some faults, he was no coward, and he managed to hide his emotion.  He held out his left arm, and suffered the beadle to pass the sleeve over it and to secure the white linen above the elbow.  Then at a gesture he gave up his velvet cap, and saw it decorated with a white cross of the same material.

“Now the register, Monsieur,” Maillard continued briskly; and waving him in the direction of a clerk, who sat at the end of the long table, having a book and a ink-horn before him, he turned to the next comer.