“Let him come to me at once; my breath fails me fast.”
The Prince enters and kneels beside the dying King. He weeps bitterly, takes his father’s already cold hand in his own and kisses it. Francis feebly returns the pressure. He turns his sunken eyes towards his son and signs that he would speak. Henry, the better to catch his words, rises and bends over him.
“My son, I have been a great sinner,” falters the dying King, “my passions led me astray; avoid this, Henry. If I have done well, follow that, not the evil.”
“Sire,” replies the Prince, “we all love and honour your Majesty.”
“Cherish France, my son,” continues the King; “it is a noble nation. They refused me nothing in my adversity, nor will they you, if you rule them rightly. Lighten the taxes, my son,—be good to my people.”
His voice grows fainter and less distinct, his face more ashen.
The Prince, seeing his lips move, but hearing no sound, lays his ear close to his father’s mouth.
“Commend me to Catherine, your wife; beware of the Guises; they will strip you; they are all traitors[6]; cherish my people.” He spoke no more.
The Prince motions to D’Angennes, and the parish priest with his acolytes enters, bearing the Host. Speechless, but conscious, with a look of infinite devotion, Francis receives the sacraments. Then, turning his dying eyes towards his son, he feebly raises his hands to bless him.
Henry, overcome by the sight of his dying father, sinks prostrate beside the bed. D’Angennes stands at the head, supporting his dying master in his arms; while he wipes the moisture from his forehead, Francis expires.