The man's hand trembled so that he could not turn the key.
“A fine thing to see an old soldier frightened,” said the king, shrugging his shoulders; “come count, will you open the door?”
“Sire,” replied Brahe, “let your Majesty command me to march to the mouth of a Danish or German cannon, and I will obey unhesitatingly, but I can not defy hell itself.”
“Well,” said the king, in a tone of contempt, “I can do it myself.”
He took the key, opened the massive oak door, and entered the hall, pronouncing the words “With the help of God.” His three attendants, whose curiosity overcame their fears, or who, perhaps, were ashamed to desert their sovereign, followed him. The hall was lighted by an innumerable number of torches. A black hanging had replaced the old tapestry. The benches round the hall were occupied by a multitude, all dressed in black; their faces were so dazzlingly bright that the four spectators of this scene were unable to distinguish one among them. On an elevated throne, from which the king was accustomed to address the assembly, sat a bloody corpse, as if wounded in several parts, and covered with the ensigns of royalty; on his right stood a child, a crown on his head, and a sceptre in his hand; at his left an old man leant on the throne; he was dressed in the mantle formerly worn by the administrators of Sweden, before it became a kingdom under Gustavus Vasa. Before the throne were seated several grave, austere looking personages, in long black robes. Between the throne and the benches of the assembly was a block covered with black crape; an ax lay beside it. No one in the vast assembly appeared conscious of the presence of Charles and his companions. On their entrance they heard nothing but a confused murmur, in which they could distinguish no words. Then the most venerable of the judges in the black robes, he who seemed to be their president, rose, and struck his hand five times on a folio volume which lay open before him. Immediately there was a profound silence, and some young men, richly dressed, their hands tied behind their backs, entered the hall by a door opposite to that which Charles had opened. He who walked first, and who appeared the most important of the prisoners, stopped in the middle of the hall, before the block, which he looked at with supreme contempt. At the same time the corpse on the throne trembled convulsively, and a crimson stream flowed from his wounds. The young man knelt down, laid his head on the block, the ax glittered in the air for a moment, descended on the block, the head rolled over the marble pavement, and reached the feet of the king, and stained his slipper with blood. Until this moment surprise had kept Charles silent, but this horrible spectacle roused him, and advancing two or three steps toward the throne, he boldly addressed the figure on its left in the well-known formulary, “If thou art of God, speak; if of the other, leave us in peace.”
The phantom answered slowly and solemnly, “King Charles, this blood will not flow in thy time, but five reigns after.” Here the voice became [pg 399] less distinct, “Woe, woe, woe to the blood of Vasa!” The forms of all the assembly now became less clear, and seemed but colored shades: soon they entirely disappeared; the lights were extinguished; still they heard a melodious noise, which one of the witnesses compared to the murmuring of the wind among the trees, another to the sound a harp string gives in breaking. All agreed as to the duration of the apparition, which they said lasted ten minutes. The hangings, the head, the waves of blood, all had disappeared with the phantoms, but Charles's slipper still retained a crimson stain, which alone would have served to remind him of the scenes of this night, if indeed they had not been but too well engraven on his memory.
When the king returned to his apartment, he wrote an account of what he had seen, and he and his companions signed it. In spite of all the precautions taken to keep these circumstances private, they were well known, even during the lifetime of Charles, and no one hitherto has thought fit to raise doubts as to their authenticity.
Street-Scenes Of The French Usurpation.
A writer in Dickens's Household Words gives a graphic sketch of a visit to Paris during the recent usurpation of Louis Napoleon, and of the scenes of butchery which occurred in the streets. On arriving in Paris, he says, every thing spoke of the state of siege. The newspapers were in a state of siege; for the Government had suspended all but its own immediate organs. The offices of the sententious “Siècle,” the mercurial “Presse,” the satiric “Charivari,” the jovial “Journal pour Rire,” were occupied by the military; and, to us English, they whispered even of a park of artillery in the Rue Vivienne, and of a government proof-reader in the printing-office of “Galignani's Messenger,” striking out obnoxious paragraphs by the dozen. The provisions were in a state of siege, the milk was out, and no one would volunteer to go to the crêmiers for more; the cabs, the commissionnaires with their trucks, were besieged; the very gas was slow in coming from the main, as though the pipes were in a state of siege. Nobody could think or speak of any thing but this confounded siege. Thought itself appeared to be beleaguered; for no one dared to give it any thing but a cautious and qualified utterance. The hotel was full of English ladies and gentlemen, who would have been delighted to go away by the first train on any of the railways; but there might just as well have been no railways, for all the good they were, seeing that it was impossible to get to or from the termini with safety. The gentlemen were valorous, certainly—there was a prevalence of “who's afraid?” sentiments; but they read the French Bradshaw earnestly, and gazed at the map of Paris with nervous interest—beating, meanwhile, the devil's tattoo. As for the ladies, dear creatures, they made no secret of their extreme terror and despair. The lone old lady, who is frightened at every thing, and who will not even travel in an omnibus with a sword in a case, for fear it should go off, was paralyzed with fear, and could only ejaculate, “Massacre!” The strong-minded lady of a certain age, who had longed for the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war,” had taken refuge in that excellent collection of tracts, of which “The Dairyman's Daughter,” is one; and gave short yelps of fear whenever the door opened. Fear, like every other emotion, is contagious. Remarking so many white faces, so much subdued utterance, so many cowed and terrified looks, I thought it very likely that I might get frightened, too. So, having been up all the previous night, I went to bed.