ompierre spoke were naught to him. The king was dead.

To return to our subject; in the carriage with the king were several
gentlemen of the court. Henry occupied the rear seat at the left, with
M. d'Epernon seated at his right, and M. de Montbazon between him and
the door, while several other gentlemen occupied the remaining seats.
When the carriage reached the Croix du Tiroir, the coachman asked
whither he should drive, and was bidden to go towards St. Innocent. On
the way thither, while in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, a cart obstructed
the way, so that the carriage had to turn towards the sidewalk and to
proceed more slowly. Here were some ironmongers' shops, beside one of
which lurked a man, his eyes keenly fixed on the approaching carriage,
his hand nervously clutching some object in his pocket.

As the carriage moved slowly by, this man sprang from his covert and
rushed towards it, a knife in his hand. In an instant he had dealt the
king two blows, in rapid succession, in the left side. The first struck
him below the armpit and went upward, merely grazing the flesh. The
other proved more dangerous. It entered his side between the fifth and
sixth ribs, and, taking a downward direction, cut a large blood-vessel.
The king, by chance, had his left hand on the shoulder of M. de
Montbazon, and was leaning towards M. d'Epernon, to whom he was
speaking. He thus laid himself more fully open to the assassin's knife.

All had passed so quickly that no movement of defence was possible.
Henry gave a low cry and made a few movements.

"What is the matter, sir?" asked M. de Montbazon, who had not seen the
affair.

"It is nothing," answered the king. "It is nothing," he repeated, his
voice now so low that they could barely hear him. Those were the last
words he spoke.

The assassin had been seized. He was a fanatic, named Francois
Ravaillac, who had been roused to his mad act by rumors that Henry
intended to make war upon the pope, and other baseless fancies of the
king's opponents. With him we are not further concerned, other than to
say that he was made to suffer the most barbarous tortures for his deed.

The carriage was turned and driven back to the Louvre. On reaching the
entrance steps some wine was given to the wounded monarch. An officer of
the guard raised his head, his only sign of intelligence being some
movements of the eyes. In a moment more they were closed, never to be
opened again.

He was carried up-stairs