The headsman, who was convulsed with agony, both physical and moral, seemed scarcely able to speak. The monk bent over him as if to catch the smallest sound he should utter.
"Her name," said he, "or no absolution." The dying man seemed to collect all his strength.
"Anne de Bueil," murmured he.
"Anne de Bueil!" repeated the monk, rising to his feet and lifting his hands to heaven, "Anne de Bueil! Did you say Anne de Bueil?"
"Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am dying."
"I absolve you?" cried the monk, with a laugh that made the sufferer's hair stand on end; "I absolve you? I am no priest!"
"You are no priest!" cried the headsman; "but who and what are you, then?"
"I will tell you, miscreant! I am John de Winter, and that woman"——
"And that woman"——gasped the executioner.
"Was my mother!"