"Hubert? What, nothing else? Henceforth, then be Hubert de Fauconpret;" and having sportively given this name to the youth--a name which descended distinguished to after years, he turned his eyes towards the falcon, and watched its progress through the sky. "The bird will miss his stroke, I fear me," said the king, turning towards De Coucy; and then, seeing some surprise at his anxiety painted on the young knight's countenance, he added, "That pigeon is from Rolleboise. I brought the breed from Ascalon. Agnes would not have loosed it without some weighty cause."
As he spoke, the falcon towered above the pigeon, struck it, and at a whistle brought it, trembling and half dead with fear, to the page, who instantly delivered it from the clutches of its winged enemy, and gave it into the hands of the king. Philip took the scrap of paper from the poor bird's neck, caressed it for a moment, and then again threw it up into the air. At first, it seemed as if it would have fallen, from the fear which it had undergone, though the well-trained falcon had not injured it in the least. After a few faint whirls, however, it gained strength again, rose in a perpendicular line into the sky, took two or three circles in the air, and then darted off at once directly towards Paris.
In the meanwhile, Philip Augustus gazed upon the paper he had thus received; and, whatever were the contents, they took the colour from his cheek. Without a word, he struck his horse violently with his spurs, urged him into a gallop, and, followed by his train as best they might, drew not in his rein till he stood before the barbican of the castle of Rolleboise.
Pale cheeks and anxious eyes encountered his glance, as he dashed over the drawbridge the moment it was lowered. "The queen?" cried he, "the queen? How fares the queen?" But, without waiting for a reply, he sprang to the ground in the court, rushed past the crowd of attendants, through the hall, up the staircase, and paused not, till he reached the door of that chamber which he and Agnes had inhabited during the first months of their union; and in which, from its happy memories, he knew she would be fond to dwell. There, however, he stopped, the beating of his heart seeming almost to menace him with destruction if he took a step farther.
There was a murmur of voices within; and, after an instant's pause, he opened the door, and gliding past the tapestry, stood at the end of the room.
The chamber was dim, for the night was near; but at the farther extremity was the faint light of a taper contending with the pale remains of day. He could see, however, that his marriage-bed was arrayed like the couch of the dying, that there were priests standing round in silence, and women in tears; while one lovely girl, whose face he knew not, knelt by the bed-side, and supported on her arm the pale and ashy countenance of another, over which the grey shadow of death seemed advancing fast.
Philip started forward. Could that be Agnes--that pale, blighted thing, over whose dim and glassy eyes a strange unlife-like film was drawn, the precursor of the shroud? Could that be Agnes--the bright--the beautiful--the beloved?
A faint exclamation, which broke from the attendants as they beheld him, reached even the heavy ear of the dying. The film was drawn back from her eyes for a moment; life blazed up once more, and concentrated all its parting light in the full, glad, ecstatic gaze which she fixed upon the countenance of him she loved. A smile of welcome and farewell hung upon her lip; and, with a last effort, she stretched forth her arms towards him. With bitter tears, Philip clasped her to his bosom. Agnes bent down her . . . head upon his neck and died!
Oh, glory! oh, victory! oh, power! Ye shining emptinesses! Ye bubbles on the stream of time!