"And you, too," exclaimed the headsman—"you, too, use that word, assassinated. It was an assassination, then, not an execution, and I am a murderer!"
He shut his eyes and uttered a hollow moan. The monk feared probably that he would die without completing his confession, for he hastened to console him.
"Go on," said he. "I cannot yet know how far you are guilty. When I have heard all, I will decide. Tell me, then, how you came to commit this deed."
"It was night," resumed the headsman, in faltering accents: "a man came to my house to seek me, and showed me an order. I followed him. Four other gentlemen were waiting for him; they put a mask upon my face, and led me with them. I was resolved to resist, if what they required me to do appeared unjust. We rode on for five or six leagues almost without uttering a word; at last we halted—and they showed me, through the window of a cottage, a woman seated at a table. 'That,' said they, 'is she whom you are to decapitate.'"
"Horrible!" exclaimed the monk. "And you obeyed?"
"Father, that woman was a monster; she had poisoned her husband, had tried to assassinate her brother-in-law, who was one of the men that now accompanied me; she had murdered a young girl whom she thought her rival; and, before leaving England, had instigated the assassination of the king's favourite."
"Buckingham?" exclaimed the monk.
"Yes, Buckingham—that was the name."
"She was an Englishwoman, then?"
"No—a Frenchwoman, but she had been married to an English nobleman."