A cold perspiration burst over me. I was like one who is in a partial stupor, with a pressing sense of death and danger from which escape was impossible. I knew that if I delayed to sign he would shoot me in his rage; and that if I signed the letter, either by a real or feigned signature, it would prove my own death-warrant, for then I should also be shot, instantly perhaps, while the document thus extorted from me, would be duly forwarded to Marie Louise, and being dated from Zaberne, would remove all suspicion of force or fraud, and cast obscurity over the place and manner of my murder, and in her mind disgrace my memory for ever. These were dreadful reflections to crowd into one short moment of time; but to gain one moment more was, to me, of priceless value. In one hand I held the extorted letter; in the other the still wetted pen. 'Sign--sign or die!' I signed my name carefully, and slowly blotted it with blotting-paper, seeking a moment when the withdrawn pistol would enable me to spring at the throat of De Bitche; but alas! that moment never came. CHAPTER LVII. THE RANDOM SHOT. My life hung by a hair, as it were; but this thorough-paced bravo was too wary for me. Before I could either rush upon him, or tear the document to pieces, he snatched it from me, and thrust me furiously back by the muzzle of the loaded pistol, which, by heaven's mercy, rather than his, did not explode. He then placed the letter carefully in his breast, and dragged me by the throat--for his power and strength were far greater than mine--to the window. 'Look your last upon your friends, for in ten minutes I will hang your dead body from the tower-head, and the ravens of the Vosges may be picking your bones, when Mademoiselle Louise is reading your letter. Presumptuous fool,--who dared lift his eyes in love to the bride of Pappenheim--to a daughter of the house of Lorraine! But on receiving this letter, with its enclosure, she will cast you from her heart and memory, and accept with joy the lover chosen by her father and the Emperor. Look--what do you see?' 'Coward!' I exclaimed, 'coward and villain! Ah! if Hepburn knew I was here?' 'And would it avail you?' he asked, while his eyes filled with a dusky light, and I felt his hot, and snake-like breath on my face; 'but 'tis not Hepburn who commands yonder.' 'Who then?' 'Roger de St. Lacy, the Duc de Bellegarde. See! yonder is his regiment, the dragoons of Brissac, with an infantry battalion of Picardy. Look ye, Scot, and look well,' (here his voice trembled, and grew hoarse, with an emotion so wild and fierce that I believed him to be mad or drunk with wine and pride,) 'for I tell thee by the God who hears us, thou seest the last of war, and all its terrors--of the sun, and all his glory!' He suddenly raised the pistol to my head--