e grumbled, 'Bishop Hugh, come thou
here.' The Bishop turned back eagerly, for those two had loved each
other in their way, and knelt by his bed.

'Read me the signatures to these damned things,' said the King; and
Hugh rejoiced that he was better, yet feared to make him worse.

'Ah, dear sire,' he began to say; but 'Read, man,' said the old King,
jerking his foot under the bedclothes. So Hugh the Bishop began to read
them over, and the sick man listened with a shaky head, for by now the
fever was running high.

'Philip the August, King of the Franks,' says the Bishop; and 'A dog's
name,' the old King muttered in his throat. 'Sanchez, Catholic King of
Navarre,' says Hugh; and 'Name of an owl,' King Henry. To the same
ground-bass he treated the themes of the illustrious Duke of Burgundy,
Henry Count of Champagne, and others of the French party. With these the
Bishop would have stopped, but the King would have the whole. 'Nay,
Hugh,' he said--and his teeth chattered as if it had been bitter
cold--'out with the name of my beloved son. So you shall see what joyful
agreement there is in my house.' The Bishop read the name of Richard
Count of Poictou, and the King grunted his 'Traitor from the womb,' as
he had often done before.

'Who follows Richard?' he asked.

'Oh, our Lady, is he not enough, sire?' said the Bishop in fear. The old
King sat bolt upright and steadied his head on his knees. 'Read,' he
said again.

'I cannot read!' cried Hugh with a groan. The King said, 'You are a
fool. Give me the parchment.'

He pored over it, with dim eyes almost out of his keeping, searching for
the names at the top. So he found what he had dreaded--'John Count of
Mortain.' Shaking fearfully, he began to point at the wall as if he saw
the man before him. 'Jesu! Count by me, King by me, and Judas by me!
Now, God, let me serve Thee as Thou deservest. Thou hast taken away all
my sons. Now then the devil may have my soul, for Thou shalt never have
it.' The death-rattle was heard in his throat, and Hugh sprang forward
to help him: he was still stiffly upright, still looking (though with
filmy eyes) at the wall, still trying to shape in words his wicked
vaunts. No words came from him; his jaw dropped before his strong old
body. They brought him the Sacrament; his soul rejected it--too clean
food. Hugh and others about him, all in a sweat, got him down at last.
They anointed him and said a few prayers, for they were in a desperate
hurr