"My son! my son!" cried Catherine, kneeling down by his side, whilst the tears, which were ever ready at her command, and might now have been natural tears of rage, rolled down her cheeks, "I cannot leave you thus, a victim to the most horrible suspicion. I may have erred against you, but it has been unconsciously. I have ever sought your honour and your glory, perhaps by means you now condemn; but I have acted, like a weak, fallible mortal, for the best. No--no--you really cannot entertain thoughts so terrible. It cannot be. This is the suggestion of my enemies--and my enemies are yours, my son." And, as she said these words, Catherine darted a cold, sharp look of rage at Henry of Navarre, who had risen, and now remained an unwilling spectator of so terrible a scene--a scene of the most fearful passions of the human heart between mother and son, and upon the bed of death. "No--no--you will retract your words. You will say you did not entertain that frightful thought." As the Queen-mother spoke, her eyes were fixed upon the paper, which was to consign the regency to Henry of Navarre; and, in spite of the animation with which she addressed her son, it was evident that upon that paper her chief thoughts were directed. "Madam!" said Charles faintly, raising himself with difficulty on one elbow, and struggling with internal pain--"you have received my last words of pardon. Let my last moments be undisturbed." "Charles, Charles!" exclaimed his mother, wringing her hands. "Let me remove these horrible ideas from your mind. What shall I say? What shall I do? Can a son think thus of a mother who has ever loved him? Oh, no!--it is impossible. Your mind wandered. You did not think it." "Enough, madam!--enough!" replied the King. "It was the passing fancy of a wandering brain, if you will have it so. It is gone now. I think of it no more. Now leave me." "But, my son," persisted Catherine, "I have such secrets to reveal to you, as you alone may hear. They are necessary to the safety of the state--necessary to the salvation of your soul hereafter. I cannot, must not, leave you. It is my bounded duty to remain." "The time is past, madam," gasped her son, "when I can listen to such matters. My moments are counted--and I have that to do that can brook no delay." Catherine sprung up with a feeling of despair, and turned away for a moment. "It is near noon," she muttered to herself. "And it was to be at noon, said the astrologer. Oh! a few minutes--but a few minutes"---- "My son," she continued aloud, again approaching the bed of the king, and having recourse once more to that importunity, which, in the latter days of his reign, was the only weapon with which she could contrive to work upon the mind of Charles, "but I have that to reveal which deeply affects the honour of our family. Would you that other ears should listen to our shame?" "Aye, ever shame--ever blood--ever remorse!" murmured Charles, turning his head upon his pillow.