he hissed between his teeth. “No one shall have you.” Then, raising his hand over the gypsy, he exclaimed in a funereal voice: — “I nunc, anima anceps, et sit tibi Deus misenicors!”

This was the dread formula with which it was the custom to conclude these gloomy ceremonies.

It was the signal agreed upon between the priest and the executioner.

The crowd knelt.

“Kyrie eleison,” said the priests, who had remained beneath the arch of the portal.

“Kyrie eleison,” repeated the throng in that murmur which runs over all heads, like the waves of a troubled sea.

“Amen,” said the archdeacon.