The old monk ran across the lists, and raised the head of the dying man, and held the crucifix aloft before his glazing eyes, and called upon him to repent and to confess, as he would have salvation.
Faint and half-choked with blood, he faltered forth the words—“I do—I do confess guilty—oh! doubly guilty!—Pardon, O God!—Charles! Marguerite!”—and as the words died on his quivering lips, he sank down, fainting with the excess of agony.
“Ho, there!—guards, headsman!” shouted Henry; “off with him—off with the villain to the block, before he die an honorable death by the sword of as good a knight as ever fought for glory!”
Then De La-Hirè knelt down beside the dying man, and took his hand in his own and raised it tenderly, while a faint gleam of consciousness kindled the pallid features—“May God as freely pardon thee as I do, O my cousin!” Then turning to the king—
“You have admitted, sire, that I have served you faithfully and well. Never yet have I sought reward at your hand: let this now be my guerdon. Much have I suffered: even thus let me not feel that my king has increased my sufferings by consigning one of my blood to the headsman’s blow. Pardon him, sire, as I do, who have the most cause of offence; pardon him, gracious king, as we will hope that a King higher yet shall pardon him and us, who be all sinners in the sight of his all-seeing eye!”
“Be it so,” answered Henry; “it never shall be said of me that a French king refused his bravest soldier’s first claim upon his justice! Bear him to his pavilion.”
And they did bear him to his pavilion, decked as it was for revelry and feasting; and they laid him there, ghastly, and gashed, and gory, upon the festive board, and his blood streamed among the choice wines, and the scent of death chilled the rich fragrance of the flowers! An hour, and he was dead who had invited others to triumph over his cousin’s slaughter; an hour, and the court-lackeys shamefully spoiled and plundered the repast which had been spread for nobles!
“And now,” continued Henry, taking the hand of Marguerite, “here is the victor’s prize! Wilt have him, Marguerite?—’fore Heaven, but he has won thee nobly! Wilt have her, De La-Hirè?—methinks her tears and beauty may yet atone for fickleness produced by treasons such as his who now shall never more betray, nor lie, nor sin, for ever!—”
“Sire,” replied De La-Hirè, very firmly, “I pardon her; I love her yet!—but I wed not dishonor!”
“He is right,” said the pale girl, “he is right, ever right and noble; for what have such as I to do with wedlock? Fare thee well, Charles—dear, honored Charles! The mists of this world are clearing away from mine eyes, and I see now that I loved thee best—thee only! Fare thee well, noble one! forget the wretch who has so deeply wronged thee—forget me, and be happy. For me, I shall right soon be free!”