“We are not your friends; we are your judges. You judges are questioning you; answer.”
“I repent of what I did, and I ask pardon of God and men.”
“Men cannot pardon you,” replied the same implacable voice; “for, pardoned to-day, you would sin to-morrow. You may change your skin, but never your heart. You have nothing to expect from men but death; as for God, implore his mercy.”
The regicide bowed his head; the renegade bent his knee. But suddenly drawing himself up, he cried: “I voted the king’s death, it is true, but with a reservation—”
“What reservation?”
“The time of the execution.”
“Sooner or later, it was still the king’s death which you voted, and the king was innocent.”
“True, true,” said the priest, “but I was afraid.”
“Then you are not only a regicide, and an apostate, but also a coward. We are not priests, but we are more just than you. You voted the death of the innocent; we vote the death of the guilty. You have ten minutes in which to prepare to meet your God.”
The bishop gave a cry of terror and fell upon both knees; the church bells rang, as if of their own impulse, and two of the men present, accustomed to the offices of the church, intoned the prayers for the dying. It was some time before the bishop found words with which to respond. He turned affrighted glances in supplication to his judges one after the other, but, not one face met his with even the consolation of mere pity. The torches, flickering in the wind, lent them, on the contrary, a savage and terrible expression. Then at last he mingled his voice with the voices that were praying for him.