soon as possible, and, as you interest yourself so much in him, you had
better let him know as much, my daughter."

"Madame," said the queen, "I have not your strength when looking at
suffering."

"Do not look, then."

The king heard nothing; he was all eyes. They were lifting Salcede from
the car on to the scaffold, round which the archers had cleared a large
space, so that it was distinctly visible to all eyes.

Salcede was about thirty-five years of age, strong and vigorous; and his
pale features, on which stood drops of blood, were animated alternately
by hope and anguish. He was no vulgar assassin; he was of good birth,
and even distantly related to the queen, and had been a captain of some
renown. Those bound hands had valiantly borne the sword, and that livid
head, on which were depicted the terrors of death, had conceived great
designs. Therefore, to many of the spectators, he was a hero; to others,
a victim; some looked on him as an assassin; but the crowd seldom
despises those very great criminals who are registered in the book of
history as well as in that of justice. Thus they told, in the crowd,
that Salcede was of a race of warriors; that his father had fought
against the Cardinal de Lorraine, but that the son had joined with the
Guises to destroy in Flanders the rising power of the Duc d'Anjou, so
hated by the French.

He had been arrested and conducted to France, and had hoped to be
rescued by the way; but unfortunately for him, M. de Bellièvre had kept
such good watch, that neither Spaniards nor Lorraines, nor leaguers, had