"Yes, the admiral, here he is!" said the duke, approaching the corpse, and contemplating it with silent ecstasy.
"The admiral! the admiral!" repeated the witnesses of this terrible scene, crowding together and timidly approaching the old man, majestic even in death.
"Ah, at last, Gaspard!" said the Duke de Guise, triumphantly. "Murderer of my father! thus do I avenge him!"
And the duke dared to plant his foot on the breast of the Protestant hero.
But instantly the dying warrior opened his eyes, his bleeding and mutilated hand was clinched for the last time, and the admiral, though without stirring, said to the duke in a sepulchral voice:
"Henry de Guise, some day the assassin's foot shall be felt on your breast. I did not kill your father. A curse upon you."
The duke, pale, and trembling in spite of himself, felt a cold shudder come over him. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to dispel the fearful vision; when he dared again to glance at the admiral his eyes were closed, his hand unclinched, and a stream of black blood was flowing from the mouth which had just pronounced such terrible words.
The duke raised his sword with a gesture of desperate resolution.
"Vell, monsir, are you gondent?"
"Yes, my worthy friend, yes, for you have revenged"—