When Rouen fell, Marlorat hid himself, but his hiding-place was betrayed, and he was imprisoned. The constable went to visit him in his dungeon, and charged him with seducing the people. “If I have, God seduced me first,” he answered; “for I have preached nothing but his pure word.” He suffered in company with two of his flock, exhorting them to the last. The high bailiff swore a terrible oath, and struck him with his official staff to make him hold his tongue; and, as he was hanging, a soldier hacked his legs. Beza, who records these things, traces the finger of God in the misfortunes that subsequently befell Marlorat’s persecutors: “The captain who betrayed him was killed three weeks after; two of his judges died of strange diseases; the soldier who hacked his legs was killed by a sword; and the high bailiff in his cups quarreled with Marshal Vieilleville, who cut off the hand with which he had struck the martyr.” Many other victims fell besides the pastors, and the prisons were so crammed with pious men and women that Brevedent, the lieutenant of police, thought it his duty to remonstrate: “Why do you crowd the dungeons?” he asked. “Can you doubt what you ought to do? Is the river yet full?” In the course of the siege, Anthony of Navarre received a bullet wound in his shoulder, of which he died on the 17th November at Andelys.[316] During his feverish wanderings, he talked to his attendants of the orange groves of his expected kingdom of Sardinia, and of the golden sands of its rivers. No wife with loving hand smoothed his dying-pillow. She was far away in the south, training up her children in all godliness; but his mistress, Louise de Rouet, stayed with him to the last. Her character of him is by no means flattering: “The prince (she said) changed his religion and party almost as easily as he changed mistresses.” After he had received extreme unction, his uneasy conscience would not let him rest. “Read me a chapter of the Bible,” he said to his physician; and after the latter had read a portion of Scripture, Anthony interrupted him, and with tears in his eyes exclaimed: “If I do but get well, I will cause the Gospel to be preached throughout France.” But his good resolutions, if sincere, came too late; and, at the age of forty-four, he died regretted by neither party. Garnier mentions a curious peculiarity of this unworthy king without a kingdom: he was so irresistibly given to pilfering that, after he had gone to bed, the pages used to search his pockets in order to restore the property he had stolen.