I found at my elbow a tall thin-faced monk in the habit of the Jacobin order.

He had risen from his seat beside the fire, and seemed to be labouring under great excitement.
'Who asked how it happened ?' he cried, rolling his eyes in a kind of frenzy, while still observant, or I was much mistaken, of his listeners.
Is there a man in France to whom the tale has not been told?
Is there ?' 'I will answer for one,' I replied, regarding him with little favour.

'I have heard nothing.' 'Then you shall! Listen!' he exclaimed, raising his right hand and brandishing it as though he denounced a person then present.

'Hear my accusation, made in the name of Mother Church and the saints against the arch hypocrite, the perjurer and assassin sitting in high places! He shall be Anathema Maranatha, for he has shed the blood of the holy and the pure, the chosen of Heaven! He shall go down to the pit, and that soon.

The blood that he has shed shall be required of him, and that before he is one year older.' 'Tut-tut.