"Are prayers being said for me?" asked the king.
"I have hardly ceased since the morning."
"Poor dear Mary! Where is Chapelain?"
"In the next room, ready to answer your call. Your mother and my uncle the cardinal are there also. Do you wish to see them, Sire?"
"No, no; none but you, Mary!" said the dying man. "Turn a little this way—there—so that I may at least see you once more."
"Courage!" replied Mary. "God is so kind! and I pray to Him with such a full heart."
"Oh, the pain!" moaned François. "I cannot see, and can scarcely hear. Give me your hand, Mary."
"There! rest upon me," said Mary, soothingly, supporting the small pale face of her husband upon her shoulder.
"My soul to God! my heart to thee, Mary! Forever! Alas! to die at seventeen!"
"No, no! you shall not die!" cried Mary. "What ill have we done to God on high that He should thus afflict us?"