And that troubled M. la Tribe no little, although he did not impart his thoughts to his companion.  Instead they talked in whispers of the things which had happened; of the Admiral, of Teligny, whom all loved, of Rochefoucauld the accomplished, the King’s friend; of the princes in the Louvre whom they gave up for lost, and of the Huguenot nobles on the farther side of the river, of whose safety there seemed some hope.  Tignonville—­he best knew why—­said nothing of the fate of his betrothed, or of his own adventures in that connection.  But each told the other how the alarm had reached him, and painted in broken words his reluctance to believe in treachery so black.  Thence they passed to the future of the cause, and of that took views as opposite as light and darkness, as Papegot and Huguenot.  The one was confident, the other in despair.  And some time in the afternoon, worn out by the awful experiences of the last twelve hours, they fell asleep, their heads on their arms, the hay tickling their faces; and, with death stalking the lane beside them, slept soundly until after sundown.

When they awoke hunger awoke with them, and urged on La Tribe’s mind the question of the missing egg.  It was not altogether the prick of appetite which troubled him, but regarding the hiding-place in which they lay as an ark of refuge providentially supplied, protected and victualled, he could not refrain from asking reverently what the deficiency meant.  It was not as if one hen only had appeared; as if no farther prospect had been extended.  But up to a certain point the message was clear.  Then when the Hand of Providence had shown itself most plainly, and in a manner to melt the heart with awe and thankfulness, the message had been blurred.  Seriously the Huguenot asked himself what it portended.

To Tignonville, if he thought of it at all, the matter was the matter of an egg, and stopped there.  An egg might alleviate the growing pangs of hunger; its non-appearance was a disappointment, but he traced the matter no farther.  It must be confessed, too, that the haycart was to him only a haycart—­and not an ark; and the sooner he was safely away from it the better he would be pleased.  While La Tribe, lying snug and warm beside him, thanked God for a lot so different from that of such of his fellows as had escaped—­whom he pictured crouching in dank cellars, or on roof-trees exposed to the heat by day and the dews by night—­the young man grew more and more restive.

Hunger pricked him, and the meanness of the part he had played moved him to action.  About midnight, resisting the dissuasions of his companion, he would have sallied out in search of food if the passage of a turbulent crowd had not warned him that the work of murder was still proceeding.  He curbed himself after that and lay until daylight.  But, ill content with his own conduct, on fire when he thought of his betrothed, he was in no temper to bear hardship cheerfully or long; and gradually there rose before his mind the picture of Madame St. Lo’s smiling face, and the fair hair which curled low on the white of her neck.