"No, Sire; as a patriot who had determined to obtain the jewel which in the old time belonged to his ancestors' crown." "That is naught," said Henry. "This man shall die." And he raised the pen once more. "You who are so great a king, Sire, should be magnanimous here. This night, Sire, is your own, to do good or ill; but it will be the darkest of your reign if that warrant is signed." "But why do you intercede?" asked Henry, and he threw himself back in his chair. "Francis is nothing to you." "The life of a noble prince, Sire, is much to all the world, and--" "You know him?" interrupted the King sharply. "Last year in Paris, Sire, he befriended my brother, who could speak nothing of him but good; and I have not told you, Sire, that he is very ill." "Bah!" cried the King. "Deadly sick from his wound, Sire." "His wound!" said the King, starting. "Yes, Sire. In the daring escape, when two of the guards and Sir Robert Garstang were wounded, the Comte was struck down by one of your brave halberdiers." "And serve the villain right," cried the King impetuously. "Brave fellow! has he been rewarded?" "No, Sire. That is left for your Majesty to do." "And it shall be done, on my royal word," cried the King. "Wounded and sick, say you?" "Yes, Sire; I have seen him, and he is very weak." "Well," said the King, "you have done your part in your appeal. But I have made up my mind to this." And as he spoke the King drew himself up in his chair once more and seized his pen. Hurst watched as if fascinated, seeing the King commence to write, and then toss the pen aside as he finished, while afterwards he was about to summon the officer of the guards without, but checked himself, extending his hand to Hurst, who bent over it. "I will not doubt you," he said, handing him the warrant. "Deliver it to the governor." And then with a wave of the hand he dismissed the chamberlain, who withdrew. Outside the chamber, Hurst proceeded a short distance down a corridor, and then gazed at the document by the light of a swinging lamp. "The death warrant of the King of France," he mused, as he noted the words condemning the Comte de la Seine to die, and then the formula: "By the King. Given at our Court at Windsor--Henry R." He went on slowly along the corridor till he had passed beyond the King's private apartments, and, as if drawn by some attraction, made his way in the direction of the chamber where Francis was lying suffering from his wound. "Bad, bad, bad," he muttered to himself. "I must be right, and Francis was ill-advised, if advised at all, and not led by his own impetuous nature to play such a trick as this. Well, he gambled with his life, and he has lost. What is it to me? I have my duty to perform. But I would give something now for the instinct of the prophet, to be able to see what this will mean in the future to France and to my own country when it is known."