"There is no necessity that he should understand, provided that he signs," retorted the cardinal. "But his hand is not strong enough to hold a pen." "It can be guided for him," taking keen delight in the alarm which he saw depicted in the expression of his dear foe. "Listen," said Catherine, very gravely. "I must give you a warning and some good advice. My poor son's end is nearer than you think. Do you know what Chapelain, the first physician, told me?--that he did not think the king would be alive to-morrow evening, unless by a miracle." "So much the more reason for us to hasten," said the cardinal, coldly. "Yes," rejoined Catherine, "but if François II. is not alive to-morrow, Charles IX. reigns; and the King of Navarre will perhaps be regent. What a terrible reckoning would he demand for the infamous punishment of his brother? Would you not be in your turn tried and condemned?" "Oh, well, Madame, he who risks nothing has nothing!" cried the cardinal, with angry warmth. "Besides, who says that Antoine de Navarre will be appointed regent? Who says that this Chapelain is not mistaken? Bah! the king is alive now!" "Not so loud! not so loud, uncle!" said Mary Stuart, rising in fright. "You will wake the king! See! you have waked him." "Mary, where are you?" said the feeble voice of François. "Here, always by your side, dear Sire," replied Mary. "Oh, how I suffer!" groaned the poor youth. "My head is as if it were on fire; and this pain in my ear is like a continual sword-thrust. Even in my sleep I have continued to suffer. Ah! all is at an end with me; all is at an end!" "Don't say so! oh, don't say so!" replied Mary, struggling to restrain her tears. "My memory is failing," said François. "Have I received the Holy Sacrament? I wish to do so as soon as possible." "All your duties shall be fulfilled, dear Sire; do not be anxious about them." "I want to see my confessor, Monsieur de Brichanteau." "He will be with you immediately," said Mary. "Are prayers being said for me?" asked the king. "I have hardly ceased since the morning." "Poor dear Mary! Where is Chapelain?" "In the next room, ready to answer your call. Your mother and my uncle the cardinal are there also. Do you wish to see them, Sire?" "No, no; none but you, Mary!" said the dying man. "Turn a little this way--there--so that I may at least see you once more." "Courage!" replied Mary. "God is so kind! and I pray to Him with such a full heart." "Oh, the pain!" moaned François. "I cannot see, and can scarcely hear. Give me your hand, Mary." "There! rest upon me," said Mary, soothingly, supporting the small pale face of her husband upon her shoulder. "My soul to God! my heart to thee, Mary! Forever! Alas! to die at seventeen!" "No, no! you shall not die!" cried Mary. "What ill have we done to God on high that He should thus afflict us?"