Hurst watched as if fascinated, seeing the King commence to write, and then toss the pen aside as he finished, while afterwards he was about to summon the officer of the guards without, but checked himself, extending his hand to Hurst, who bent over it.
“I will not doubt you,” he said, handing him the warrant. “Deliver it to the governor.” And then with a wave of the hand he dismissed the chamberlain, who withdrew.
Outside the chamber, Hurst proceeded a short distance down a corridor, and then gazed at the document by the light of a swinging lamp.
“The death warrant of the King of France,” he mused, as he noted the words condemning the Comte de la Seine to die, and then the formula: “By the King. Given at our Court at Windsor—Henry R.”
He went on slowly along the corridor till he had passed beyond the King’s private apartments, and, as if drawn by some attraction, made his way in the direction of the chamber where Francis was lying suffering from his wound.
“Bad, bad, bad,” he muttered to himself. “I must be right, and Francis was ill-advised, if advised at all, and not led by his own impetuous nature to play such a trick as this. Well, he gambled with his life, and he has lost. What is it to me? I have my duty to perform. But I would give something now for the instinct of the prophet, to be able to see what this will mean in the future to France and to my own country when it is known.”
He walked on dreamily, and then started, for he found that he had unconsciously drawn near to Francis’s chamber, and he hesitated, half disposed to go in and see how he fared; but he frowned and went on.
“No,” he said, “I have my own head to think of, and my movements may be misconstrued by the most jealous man that ever sat upon a throne.”
He was passing slowly on in the gloomiest part by the door, when he started, for some one had silently glided out of the opening and plucked him by the sleeve.
“My lord,” whispered a voice.