Left alone in the chamber of death, I sat near the foot of the bed, where the curtains had been withdrawn, and I tried to read by a lamp that stood on a little table near me. The book slipped from my hands. I could think only of the strange combination of events which, after so many years, gave this guilty old man the grandson of his victim as witness and guardian of his last sleep. Then, in the tranquility of that hour and place, I recalled, in spite of myself, the scenes of tumult and bloody violence which had filled the life that was now ebbing away. I looked for traces of it on the face of the dying old man and on the large features defined in the shadow with the pale distinctness of a plaster mask. I saw only the solemnity and premature peace of the tomb. At intervals I went to the bedside to make sure that the weakened breast still heaved with vital breath. Towards the middle of the night an irresistible torpor seized me, and I slept, leaning my forehead on my hand. Suddenly I was awakened by a strange and sinister sound. I looked up, and a shudder ran through the marrow of my bones. The old man was half-sitting up in bed, staring at me with an intent, astonished look, and an expression of life and intelligence that I had not seen in him before. When our eyes met he started, stretched out his arms, and said, in a beseeching voice, whose strange unknown quality almost stopped the beating of my heart: "Marquis, forgive me!" In vain I tried to rise, to speak. I sat petrified in my chair. After a silence, during which the dying man’s eyes were still fixed on mine beseechingly, he repeated: "Marquis, deign to forgive me." At last I summoned up strength to go to him. As I approached he drew back fearfully, as if shrinking from a dreadful contact. I raised my hand, and lowering it gently before his staring and terror-stricken eyes: "Rest in peace," I said; "I forgive you." Before I had done speaking, his withered face lighted up with a flash of joy and youth. Two tears burst from his dry and sunken orbits. He stretched a hand to me, then suddenly the hand stiffened in a threatening gesture, and I saw his eyes roll between their dilated lids, as if a ball had gone through his heart. "Oh, the English!" he whispered, and immediately fell back on the pillow like a log. He was dead. I called quickly, and the others came. Soon he was surrounded by pious mourners, weeping and praying for him. I retired, my soul deeply moved by this extraordinary scene, which I had resolved should ever remain a secret between myself and the dead man.