Indeed, the castle clock was striking half-past three. The priest signed that he had finished. “Then leave me alone,” said Murat; and the old man went out. Murat paced his room for a few moments, then he sat down on his bed and let his head fall into his hands. Doubtless, during the quarter of an hour he remained thus absorbed in his thoughts, he saw his whole life pass before him, from the inn where he had started to the palace he had reached; no doubt his adventurous career unrolled itself before him like some golden dream, some brilliant fiction, some tale from the Arabian Nights. His life gleamed athwart the storm like a rainbow, and like a rainbow’s, its two extremities were lost in clouds—the clouds of birth and death. At last he roused himself from this inward contemplation, and lifted a pale but tranquil face. Then he went to the glass and arranged his hair. His strange characteristics never left him. The affianced of Death, he was adorning himself to meet his bride. Four o’clock struck. Murat went to the door himself and opened it. General Nunziante was waiting for him. “Thank you, general,” said Murat. “You have kept your word. Kiss me, and go at once, if you like.” The general threw himself into the king’s arms, weeping, and utterly unable to speak. “Courage,” said Murat. “You see I am calm.” It was this very calmness which broke the general’s heart. He dashed out of the corridor, and left the castle, running like a madman. Then the king walked out into the courtyard. Everything was ready for the execution. Nine men and a corporal were ranged before the door of the council chamber. Opposite them was a wall twelve feet high. Three feet away from the wall was a stone block: Murat mounted it, thus raising himself about a foot above the soldiers who were to execute him. Then he took out his watch,[Madame Murat recovered this watch at the price of 200 Louis] kissed his wife’s portrait, and fixing his eyes on it, gave the order to fire. At the word of command five out of the nine men fired: Murat remained standing. The soldiers had been ashamed to fire on their king, and had aimed over his head. That moment perhaps displayed most gloriously the lionlike courage which was Murat’s special attribute. His face never changed, he did not move a muscle; only gazing at the soldiers with an expression of mingled bitterness and gratitude, he said: “Thank you; my friends. Since sooner or later you will be obliged to aim true, do not prolong my death-agonies. All I ask you is to aim at the heart and spare the face. Now——” With the same voice, the same calm, the same expression, he repeated the fatal words one after another, without lagging, without hastening, as if he were giving an accustomed command; but this time, happier than the first, at the word “Fire!” he fell pierced by eight bullets, without a sigh, without a movement, still holding the watch in his left hand.