demanded the monk.

"I do not know them. But the four Frenchmen called the Englishman 'My
lord.'"

"And the woman; was she young?"

"Young and beautiful, most beautiful, as she kneeled before me
imploring mercy. I have never been able to understand how I had the
courage to strike off that pale and lovely head."

The monk seemed to be under the influence of some violent emotion; his
limbs trembled, and he appeared unable to speak. At last, mastering
himself by a strong effort--"The name of this woman?" said he.

"I do not know it. She had been married twice, once in France and once
in England."

"And you killed her!" said the monk, vehemently. "You served as
instrument to those dastardly villains who dared not kill her
themselves. You had no pity on her youth, her beauty, her weakness!
You killed her!"

"Alas! holy father," said the headsman, "this woman concealed, under
the exterior of an angel, the vices of a demon; and when I saw her,
when I remembered all that I had myself suffered from her"----

"You? And what could she have done to you?"

"She had seduced my brother, who was a priest, had fled with him from
his convent, lost him both body and soul."

"Your brother?"

"Yes, my brother had been her first lover. Oh, my father! do not look
at me thus. I am very guilty, then! You cannot pardon me!"

The monk composed his features, which had assumed a terrible
expression during the latter part of the dying man's confession.

"I will pardon you," said he, "if you tell me all. Since your brother
was her first lover, you must know her maiden name. Tell it me."

"Oh, my God! my God!" exclaimed the headsman--"I am dying! Absolution,
holy father! absolution!"

"Her name," said the monk, "and I give it to you."

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?