General Melac and his murderous hordes were in the old city of Speier, squandering the goods and money of which they had robbed the unfortunate inhabitants. Scarcely two months had elapsed since the departure of the French from Esslingen, and in that short interval they had laid more than one hundred towns in ashes.

But Melac was insatiable; his eyes feasted on the scarlet hue of German blood, his ears were ravished with the sounds of German groans and sighs; and oftentimes, when the poor hunted fugitives were flying from his presence, he made a pastime of their misery for himself, by aiming at them with his own musket, to see how many he could bring down before they passed out of sight.

He was holding a council of war with his generals; but, while he made merry over his cruelties of the day before, and projected others for the morrow, his officers frowned and averted their eyes.

His thick, sensual lips expanded with a hideous smile. "It would seem that my orders are not agreeable," said he. "Pray, gentlemen, am I so unlucky as to have earned your disapproval?"

There was no answer to this inquiry, but neither was there any change in the aspect of the officers.

"General Feuquiere," cried Melac, "you are not usually reticent; pray, let us hear your opinion of my mode of warfare."

"I cannot approve of cruelty," replied Feuquiere, bluntly. "Our men act much less like the brave soldiers of a Christian king, than like demons that have been let loose from hell."

"You do not flatter us," replied Melac. "And I am curious to know whether anybody else here present shares your opinion."

"We are all of one mind," was the unanimous reply.

"We are assassins and incendiaries, but we have never yet fought a battle like men," resumed De Feuquiere.

"No," added Montclas. "We have longed in vain for honorable warfare; for a fair combat before the light of heaven, face to face with men armed like ourselves; and we are sick at heart of midnight torches and midnight murders."

"No doubt; you are a sentimental personage, I hear: one who shed tears when the order was given to sack Mannheim."

"I am not ashamed of those tears," returned Montclas. "For three months these much enduring people have exerted themselves to do our bidding, treating us like guests who had come to them as foes. And when, in return for their kindness, our soldiery were ordered to sack their beautiful city, I wept while I was forced to obey the inhuman command of my superior officer. May Almighty God not hold me responsible as a creature for what I have been forced to do as a soldier!"

"You can justify yourself by referring the Almighty to me, as I shall certainly justify myself by referring Him to Monsieur Louvois. It is true that I do not weep when I carry out his orders; but you may judge for yourselves whether I transcend them,—General Montclas, be so good as to read aloud this dispatch."

General Montclas took the paper, and read in an audible voice:

"'It is now two weeks since I have seen a courier from the army. What are you about that I receive no more accounts of the destruction of German cities wherewith to entertain the idle hours of his majesty? You have been ordered to devastate the entire German frontier. You began bravely, but you are not keeping the promise of your opening. The Germans are full of sentiment, and you must wound them through their affections and associations. Burn their houses, sack their fine churches, deface and destroy their monuments and public buildings. When next you write, let me hear that Speier with its magnificent cathedral is a thing of the past; and be expeditious, that Worms and Trier may share the same fate.'"

"'LOUVOIS.'"

"You see, then," observed Melac, "that I do but obey orders."

"That may be," sighed De Feuquiere, "but all Europe will rise in one indignant protest against our inhumanity."

"Let them protest; we will have raised such a barrier of desolation between themselves and France, that we can afford to laugh at their indignation. I for my part approve of the method of warfare traced out for us by the minister of war, and I shall carry it out from Basle to Coblentz. The time we allowed to the people of Speier for reflection, expires to-day. To horse, then! The burgomasters are waiting for us in the market-place by the cathedral."

Yes! The burghers, the clergy, the women, and the children, were on their knees in the market-place, crying for mercy. Melac, laughing at their wretchedness, spurred his horse onward, and plunged into their midst, scattering them right and left like a flock of frightened sheep; and the clang of his horse's hoofs on the stone pavement sounded to his unhappy victims like the riveting of nails in the great coffin wherein their beautiful city was shortly to be buried.

But they were not noisy in their grief. Here and there might be heard a slight sob, and, with this exception, there was silence in that thronged market-place.

Suddenly the great bell of the cathedral began to toll, and after it all the bells in Speier. General Melac slackened his pace, and rode deliberately along the market-place, as if to give that weeping multitude the opportunity of looking upon his cruel face, and reading there that from him no mercy was to be expected.

The bells ceased, and their tones were yet trembling on the air, when the women and children lifted up their voices and began to chant: "In my trouble I called on the Lord!"

The strain was taken up by the musicians who stood at the open windows of the council-hall, and now the burghers, the magistrates, and the clergy, joined in the holy song. The French uncovered their heads and listened reverentially, while many an eye was dimmed with tears, and many a heart bled for the fate of those whom they could not rescue.

Every man there felt the influence of the blessed words except one. General Melac was neither awed nor touched; his pale eye was as cold, his sardonic mouth as cruel as ever.

"He is perfectly hardened," murmured a monk, who was leaning against one of the columns of the cathedral. This monk was a young man, of tall, muscular build. His wide shoulders and fine, erect figure, seemed much more suitable to a soldier than to a brother of the order of mercy. Even his sun-burnt face had a proud, martial look; and as his dark, glowing eyes rested on Melac, they kindled with a glance that was not very expressive of brotherly love.

"He is without pity," thought he, "and perhaps 'tis well; for I might have been touched to grant him a death more merciful."

He moved away that he might distinguish the words that were now being poured forth from the quivering lips of the white-haired prebendary of the cathedral; but the poor old priest's voice was tremulous with tears, and the monk could not hear. He then made a passage for himself through the crowd and approached General Melac. The prebendary had ceased to speak, and there was a solemn stillness in the market-place, for every sigh was hushed to catch the words that were to follow.

Melac looked around that he might sec how many thousand human beings were acknowledging his power, then he drew in his rein and smiled— that deadly smile!

"My orders must be carried out," said he, in a loud and distinct voice. "Speier must be razed to the ground, and I am sorry that its inhabitants were unwilling to profit by the permission I gave them to emigrate to France. They would have been kindly received there."

"We hope for mercy," was the reply of the prebendary. "Oh, general, let us not hope in vain!"

"No mercy shall be given you," said Melac, who, turning to General Montelas, remarked, "What an advantage I have over you! I know their language, and can understand all their expressions of grief! It is a comic litany!"

"Demon, I will repay thee!" muttered the monk. And, coming close to the general's horse, he laid his hand upon the rein.

"What do you mean, sirrah?" cried Melac. "Withdraw your hand."

"Your excellency," replied the man in pure French, "allow me to station myself at your horse's head, for you may need my help to- day."

"Your help? Wherefore?"

"The work in which you are engaged is apt to provoke personal hostility. I dreamed last night that I saw you weltering in your blood, enveloped in flames. I am superstitiouns—very; particularly as regards dreams, and I left the hospital where I was engaged in nursing the sick, on purpose to protect your excellency from secret foes."

"Protect me! Who do you suppose would he so bold as to attack me?
Not this whining multitude around us."

"Nobody knows to what acts despair may drive the meekest of men," was the monk's reply.

"Very well; I believe you are right," said Melac, a little disturbed. "Station yourself at my rein, then."

At that moment there was a general wail, and many a voice was lifted up in one last effort to soften the heart of their persecutor.

"Speier must be destroyed," was his answer, "but to show you the extent of my clemency, I will now announce to you that without the gates are four hundred forage-wagons, which I have provided for the removal of your valuables (if you have any) to any point you may select within the boundaries of France. Those who prefer to remain, are allowed to deposit their effects in the cathedral, and to guard them in person. The temple of Almighty God is sacred, and the hand of man shall not profane its sanctity by deeds of violence. Take your choice of the cathedral or the army-wagons: I give you four hours' grace. If, after that time, I find a German on the streets, man, woman, or child, the offender shall be scourged or put to the sword."

In a few moments the market-place was empty, and the people, exhausted and cowed though they were, by two months of oppression, had flown to take advantage of this last act of grace.

"Now, my excellent brother," said Melac to the monk, "you see that I am quite safe, and can dispense with your protection."

"The day is not yet at an end," said the monk, solemnly.

"You are right." cried the butcher, "it has scarcely begun; but by and-by we shall see a comedy that will raise your spirits for a month to come. The actors thereof are to be the people of Speier, and the entertainment will close with an exhibition of fireworks on a magnificent scale. Send me two ordnance officers!" cried he to his staff.

Two lancers approached and saluted their commander.

"Let two companies of infantry occupy the market-place," said Melac. "Let four cannon be stationed at the entrances of the four streets leading to the cathedral. For four hours the people shall be allowed to enter with their chattels. At the end of this truce, two more companies of infantry shall be ordered hither, one of which shall surround the cathedral, the other march inside. A detachment of miners must encompass the columns and cornice of the roof with combustibles; but use no powder, for that might endanger ourselves. There are straw, hemp, pitch, tar, and sulphur enough in the town to make the grandest show since Rome was burned. The infantry that enter the church, will massacre the people, and if they are dexterous the booty is theirs; but they must do their work swiftly, or there will be no time to save anything, for I intend that the entire building shall be fired at once."

The monk started, grasped the mane of the horse with a movement that caused him to shy, and his rider to cry out in great irritation:

"What are you doing, fool?"

"Pardon, your excellency, my foot was under your horse's hoof, and I could not help catching at his mane."

"Keep farther away, then; I do not believe in dreams.—Away!" cried he, to the lancers, who, horror-stricken hut powerless to refuse, went on their diabolical mission,

"And now," continued Melac, "we will ride to the gates to see what sort of entertainment our hospitable hosts of Speier are preparing for us there."

He galloped off with such swiftness that his guardian-angel was left behind. But he followed as fast as he could; when-ever he met a man hastening with his goods to the cathedral, bidding him "Beware!" and passing on. Some heeded the warning, others did not. They were so paralyzed by despair that the monk's words conveyed no meaning to their minds, and they went humbly on to their destruction.

He meanwhile hurried to the gates through which the weeping crowds were bearing, each one, what he valued most on earth. There were women, scarcely able to totter, whose dearest burdens were their own helpless children; there were men carrying sickly wives or decrepit mothers; there were others so loaded down with the few worldly goods that the odious Frenchman had left them, that their backs were almost bent in two, and they were scarcely able to drag themselves along! The nearer the gates, the denser the throng, many of whom were fainting with misery and exhaustion; but many also to whom despair lent strength.

Melac was there, enjoying the scene; sometimes glancing toward the gates, sometimes toward the wagons which, for miles around, covered the extensive plain outside of the city. The poor fainting wretches that reached them let their burdens drop, and would have made an effort to follow them, but they were told that no one would be allowed to enter the wagons until all had been filled with their wares.