"Why do they ever pursue me thus--those Huguenots, who perished with the
Admiral? It was not I--it was my mother who was the cause of all. And
yet, I myself, arquebuse in hand, I hunted them to the death. Oh! but my
remorse has been long and bitter, Henry. What I have suffered none on
earth can tell. Since that fatal night, I have never enjoyed a moment's
peace of mind. Do kings ever enjoy peace of mind, Henry? Oh, be glad
that thou art not a reigning king! Peace of mind is not for them. If
there be a purgatory, Henry, in another world, I have already endured
all its tortures on this earth. Is not remorse the worst purgatory?
ay--the most damning hell. But why, then, do they pursue me thus in
hideous visions still?"

The wretched king buried his head in his pillow.

"Strive to be calm," said Henry of Navarre, bending over him to lift up
his head, and arrange his cushions. "Those visions will leave you."

"Yes! in the grave--perhaps!" replied Charles, again looking up with a
shudder.

"Let us hope better things," continued Henry. "With more tranquillity of
mind, you will regain your strength, and"----

"No--all is past," murmured the king. "I feel that I am dying. Know you
not that there is one accused of practising sorcery upon me. Folly!
madness! An evil deed _has_ been practised upon me. Yes--the thought
will not leave me. I would drive it away, but it still rankles in my
heart. Evil _has_ been done me, but not by sorcery. And yet the sorcerer
must die. The world must believe that it was he who worked my death; but
it was another. Come here, Henry; bend your ear to me, for I can no
longer rise. Wouldst thou know who it was?"

A noise in the further part of the room startled the young King of
Navarre at this moment, and he turned his head. The only living creature
present was the favourite green ape of the king, that sat and grinned
and moaned, as if in mockery of his dying master.

"Come nearer, Henry," pursued the king, "for I would speak that to thee,
that not the very walls may hear. Know you what has caused my death--who
has been my murderer?"

Henry bent his head over the dying man, more to satisfy a caprice of the
sufferer, than in the expectation of any serious revelation; and, as
Charles whispered in his ear, he started back in horror.

"Oh, sire, think not so! Drive away so miserable a suspicion!" he said.
"It were too horrible. It is impossible!"

"Impossible!" repeated the king, with a faint iro