Murat then thanked Stratti for his kindness and begged to be left alone, when he crossed his arms on his breast and stared at the portraits of his family. His first notice of the sentence which had been pronounced upon him came through a priest, whose name was Masdea. The latter, as he told Joachim, had had cause to be grateful to him in the past for some unexpected help in the building of a church, and it was that which had induced him to brave the displeasure of Joachim’s enemies now. He assured Joachim that his prayers would be offered up for the repose of his soul, and begged him to prepare himself as a Christian to appear before his Maker; and Joachim did so, Masdea says, with philosophic resignation.
The “court” by now had its sentence ready.
“Joachim Murat, by the fortune of arms, having returned into that private life in which he was born, and having ventured with twenty-eight comrades to attempt this rash enterprise, not trusting to the force of arms [this, by the way, seems to be a queer sort of grievance], but to rebellion, has excited the people to rise against the lawful sovereign, endeavoured to revolutionize the kingdom and Italy, and is therefore condemned to die as a public enemy, by the law made during the Decennium, and which is still maintained in full vigour.”
Joachim seemed to be very little interested in the reading of his doom. Except for an occasional glance of cold contempt, he paid no attention to the herald or his message.
Then he was led down some stone steps into a sort of court, which may be seen to this day, and placed against the wall on the left of the foot of the stairs.
He refused to have his eyes bound, and looked calmly on while the muskets of the firing party were being loaded. When all was ready, he straightened himself up and looked steadily at his executioners.
“Spare my face,” he said, “and aim at my heart.”
So died Joachim Murat, in the forty-eighth year of his life, and he met his end with a fearlessness and dignity which shone the brighter for the squalid surroundings in which he displayed them.
There is a story still current in the Penisola, that after his death his head was cut off, by Ferdinand’s order, and carried to Naples, in order that the “Butcher King” might be sure that his gallant enemy was no more.