I paused with my eyes fixed upon the face of the Marquis, and some feeling of compassion entered into my heart. But I could not speak the words he wanted to draw from me—I could not pronounce forgiveness to the murderer of my father. I remained silent, while the priest repeated, more than once, “Forgive him, oh forgive him, and let him part in peace!” I heard the steps of Westover and Jeanette approaching, and I said, at length, “Has he done justice to my father’s memory? Will he—can he now do justice to it?” The priest drew back from me and let go my hand. “Young man,” he said, in a solemn and reproving tone, “make no bargain with God! Trifle not with the command of your Saviour. It is Christ who bids you to forgive, if you would be forgiven, to love your enemies, to pray for those who hate you. Forgive him! On your soul’s salvation, I call upon you to pronounce your forgiveness of that wretched, dying old man while the words can still reach his ear, and console him at this last, dark, terrible moment—forgive him, I say!” “Speak, De Lacy, speak,” said the voice of Westover, “for God’s sake tell him you forgive him!” At the same moment, the hand of the dying man made a feeble movement on the cross as if he would have raised it, and an expression of imploring anxiety came into his fading eyes that touched me. I took a step forward to the side of the bed, and said, “Marquis de Carcassonne, I do forgive you, and I pray that God Almighty, for his Son’s sake, may forgive you also!” The light of joy and relief came for an instant into the old man’s eyes, but faded away instantly; and I thought that he was a corpse. “Stand back!” said Father Noailles, with inconceivable energy, and placing himself right before the dying man, and clasping his hands together, he swung them up and down as if he had a censer in them—whether it was to rouse his attention or not, I cannot tell—and then he exclaimed aloud, “If any fiend prevents your utterance, I command him hence in the name of the Blessed Trinity—of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. “Henri de Carcassonne, I adjure you, as you hope for pardon and life eternal, answer me before these present—Is all you have told me concerning the death of the Count de Lacy true?—and do you fully and freely consent to my making it public, without any reservation on the plea of confession? If so, say yes, or die in your sins!” There was something inexpressibly grand and awful in his look, his tone, his manner; but something more awful was to come. As we may suppose one would rise from the dead, the Marquis de Carcassonne suddenly raised himself in the bed, and in a clear, distinct tone replied—“It is true, so help me God—I do consent.” The last word rattled in his throat. The effort was over. It was the flash of the expiring lamp, and the words were hardly uttered, when he fell over on his side with a ghastly swimming of his eyes.