A great multitude surrounded the place, and fixed their eyes upon the victim of arbitrary power, as he stood calm and unmoved before them, in the spring of youth and the dignity of conscious innocence. There were few who had not heard of the Count de Blenau, and all that they had heard was good. The heart of man too, however fallen, has still one spot reserved for the dwelling of compassion, and its very weakness makes it soften to virtue in distress, and often even to forget faults in misfortunes. However that may be, there was a glistening in the eyes of many as they turned their looks towards De Blenau, who, according to the universal custom of the time, advanced to the front of the scaffold to address them. "Good friends," said he, "it is the will of Heaven that here I should give back the spirit which has been lent me; and so help me that God into whose bright presence I now go, as I am innocent of any crime towards my King and Country!" A murmur ran among the people. "This is my last asseveration," he continued; "and my last counsel to you is, to keep your hearts clear and guiltless, so that if misfortune should follow any one as it has followed me, he may be able to lay his head upon the block as fearlessly as I do now." And retiring a step, he unloosed his collar, and knelt for the stroke of the executioner. "A horse! A horse! A council messenger! Pardon for the Count! Pardon for the Count!" cried a thousand voices from the crowd. De Blenau looked up. Headlong down the long narrow street that then led in a straight line from the square, his horse in foam, his hat left far behind, and his long grey hair flying in the wind, spurring as if for life, came a horseman, who ever and anon held up a packet in his hand, and vociferated something that was lost in the distance. He wore the dress of a Lieutenant of the King's forests, and dashing like lightning through the crowd, that reeled back on every side as he approached, he paused not till he reached the foot of the scaffold,--threw himself from his horse--passed unopposed through the guards--rushed up the steps, and Philip the Woodman of Mantes cast himself at De Blenau's feet. "My noble, noble Lord!" exclaimed the Woodman. It was all that he could utter, for his breath was gone with the rapidity of his progress. "What is all this?" cried the Prevost of Lyons, coming forward. "And why do you stop the execution of the prisoner, Sir Lieutenant? What is all this?"-- Philip started on his feet, "What is it?" he exclaimed, "why, that none of you blood-sucking wolves dare put a fang to the Count's throat: that's what it is! There is his pardon, with the King's own signature; ay! and the Cardinal's to boot! At least, so Monsieur de Chavigni tells me; for being no great clerk, I have not read it myself."