A slight convulsion passed over his features,—he staggered backward. The King, horror-stricken, signed to the prison warders standing by, to support him. He muttered a word of thanks, as they caught him by both arms.
“Take me where I can die quietly!” he said to them, “It will soon be over! I shall give you little trouble!”
A cold, weak, trembling hand clasped his. It was the hand of the King’s wretched assassin.
“Let me go with you!” he cried—“Let me die with you! You have been cruel to me!—but you could not have meant it!—you were once kind!”
Del Fortis thrust him aside.
“Curse you!” he said thickly—“You are the cause—you—you are the cause of this damned mischief! You!—God!—to think of it!—you devil’s spawn!—you cur!”
His voice failed him, and he reeled heavily against the sturdy form of one of the warders who held him—his lips were flecked with blood and foam. Shocked and appalled, no less at his words, than at the fiendish contortion of his features, the King drew near.
“Curse not a fellow-mortal, unhappy priest, in thine own passage towards the final judgment!” he said in grave accents—“The blessing of this poor misguided creature may help thee more than even a king’s free pardon!”
And he extended his hand;—but with all the force of his now struggling and convulsed body, Del Fortis beat it back, and raised himself by an almost superhuman effort.
“Pardon! Who talks of pardon!” he cried, with a strong voice—“I do not need it—I do not seek it! I have worked for the Church—I die for the Church! For every one that says ‘The King!’—I say, ‘Rome’!”