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About The banner of the South. (Augusta, Ga.) 1868-1870 | View Entire Issue (June 12, 1869)
VOL. 11. In Memoriam. BY MRS. MEROAEET J. PRESTON OF KY. I. Past, the clash and clang of battle— Past, the terrors, trials, fears— Past, the deadly roar and rattle, Vet we meet in tears. ii. Not a shout of exultation Breaks the sobbing silence deep— On the death-day of a nation Is it strange we weep ? hi. But the homage sad we render Softens with a proud relief, And a solemn joy and tender Mingles with our grief. iv. Oh, the heroes wrested from ns Have not lived nor died in vain ! For their memory’s bow of promise Spans our years of pain. v. Countless eyes have conned their story— Ceuntless hearts grown brave thereby; Let us thank the God of glory We had such to die! vr. Where had been the Church’s honor, When the overwhelming flood Os her foes rushed fierce upon her, But for martyr’s blood? VII. Where the lofty exclamations O’r the wrench of thraldom’s chain ? Where the grandeur of the nations, But— for patriots slain ? VIII. Shall we, then, in sad procession— Heads low bowed upon the breast— Only bring our tears to freshen Graves where heroes rest ? IV. Rather lay the rose and laurel, Clad with dew, above the sod, Learn their lives’ majestic moral, Wait and trust in God ! [For the Banner of the South.] The Executioner’s Bride. BY MISS ANNIE M. B\ UNWELL, BEAUFORT, SOUTH CAROLINA. CHAPTER I. GASTON de MORN AY. In the Spring of 1454, when Charles VII, surnamed the Victorious, had suc ceeded in restoring peace to desolated France, and she was beginning to recov er from the long and bloody war with England, whieh had proved so nearly fatal to her independence as a nation, two men were seated at a window over looking the principal street of Rouen, watching idly the passers below. “Par ma foi\ my lord,” said the jounger, a lad of scarce sixteen, who performed the duties of page to the knight at his side; “la belle Louise has a pretty foot and a neat ankle to boot. See how coyly she lifts her robe. She knows we are watching her. “Then her knowledge is at fault,” an swered the knight impatiently; “for I, at least, have not even seen her. Who is she, and how have you contrived to know her in two short days ?” ' She is our landlord,s daughter, and a T . er y pretty one,” said the boy, laughing lightly, as he added : “If you keep me a week longer in so dull a place I’ll en gage to know every fair demoiselle with in its walls, by sight at least.” “So you find Rouen dull, my Raoul,” sa 'd the knight sadly. “Ah! no doubt is after the gaities of Paris. lam sorry to keep you here, but it will not be [or long;” and the sigh which concluded Ids speech was almost a groan. the boy looked up affectionately into ms master’s gloomy face, as he answered: “t did not mean to complain, my lord; ■. I 11 )’ words were but spoken in idle jest, f, * uow you are unhappy, and I would rather be near 4tf mfcg To cheer your loneliness, than at the gayest court ball in Paris. Forgive me, if I speak too boldly of what you have not confided to me.” Gaston de Mornay laid his hands kind ly on on the shoulder of his page„sayiog: “I am unhappy, mon enfant, and my grief is one which can know no cure. I would not budren your young heart with so dark a sorrow; and this alone keeps me from confiding in your well-proved love. Believe me, it is no distrust.” “A thousand thanks, my gracious mas ter!” cried the boy, as he raised the knight’s hand to his lips; “I feel your kindness to the very depths of my’ heart; but I fain would share your burden. Per chance I may even, in some small mea sure lighten it.” “Your will to aid me I doubt not, Raoul; but alas! she is beyond all hu man help. The doom is sealed.” ‘‘The doom, my lord? Ah! your words are to me unfathomable mys teries.” “You will know all some day,” said the knight, replying to the boy’s wistful glance, rather than to his words. “Would you hear it now ?” “If it give you not too much pain, sir,” answered the boy, drawing nearer to the knight, with eager and loving interest lighting every feature. De Mornay sighed heavily, and some moments passed ere he spoke; and then, it seemed to be on a subject foreign to that of which they had been speaking. Pointing to a tall man who walked slow ly down the street he inquired: Dost thou know who yonder knave is, Raoul ?” “Yes, my lord/ That is Bertrand Ogier, the executioner of Rouen.” The person De Mornay had pointed out was one to whom a second glance would always be accorded. Very tall, with a form graceful, in spite of its almost ’gi gantic proportions ; clad in black, with a large cloak hanging over his left shoulder, and a broad rimmed hat, of the same sombre hue, slouched low over his fore head. The upper part of the face was concealed, but the stern, resolute mouth, just shaded by a moustache of raven blackness, was perfect as if chiselled in in marble; and an occasional movement of the lips revealed teeth of dazzling whiteness. The complexion, though dark was clear, and spoke plainly of the man’s strong, vigorous health. He walked slow ly, glancing neither to the right nor left, with a ringing defiant tread. Nothing obstructed his path, for every one moved aside at his approach, anxious to avoid the very touch of his loosely waving cloak; but no word was spoken. It was plain that the execution er was both feared and hated. De Mornay gazed at him until he strode out of sight, and then leaning back on his chair, concealed his pale face in hands which Raoul saw were trembling. They sat for a time in silence, tin 1 boy watching his master earnestly, but by no move ment disturbing his reverie. It was dark, when the knight raised his head and spoke. “I will tell you now, Raoul, the secret of my wretchedness. Listen.” “Three years ago, ere you knew me, I was betrothed to one whom all acknowl edged as the fairest maiden in France. She was the only daughter of the Count de Lisle, a noble of Provence; and the Count being impoverished in the late wars, yielded his consent that the son of his old brother-in-arms should wed his only child, the heiress of his ancient name and heavily burdened estates. I was then wealthy, but before the period fixed for our marriage arrived, the anger of the Dauphin fell upon me, and by his influence I was stripped of my posses | sions, and left in the comparative poverty lin which you found me. The Count or dered his daughter to give me up, the King forbade our marriage, and finally, to crown my wretchedness, Isabelle wrote Gr-A., me a cold farewell. I went to Loraine, where I met you, my faithful boy, and from that time, until I left you so sud denly, three months ago in Paris, we were never separated. You know how my uncle’s death restored me to wealth ; and the first use I made of it was to seek a renewal of my engagement with Isabelle. The King, who is all kindness when the Dauphin is not near, readily consented, and I hastened to Provence. T saw the Count, but he would not listen to my prayers, telling me that Isabelle would, in three weeks, be the wife of Sire de Coucy, a noble of immense wealth, the worst of tempers, the coldest of hearts enfin, a worn out roue of sixty-five. “I was in despair; but lovers are bold, and I succeeded in getting a letter to Isabella, imploring her to see me alone. We met that night, by the aid of her nurse, who was my friend, in a little chapel, which adjoined the Castle de Lisle, and, weeping on my breast, she swore to me her love. She had been forced to write that cruel letter, she sobbed, and now they would force her to wed the Sire de Coucy, if I could not save her. I was in a state of blissful intoxication at finding her faithful, and we arranged a plan for flight. We de cided to leave in a fornight, and I has tened to make every preparation for her comfort and safety. You were in Paris and I feared to send or even write to you, lest it should betray me, for I was in concealment; every one, even you, be lieving me to be in Italy. Ere the first week had passed, the Sire de Coucy arrived at the Castle, with, it was reported, an immense sum of money in his possession. We resolved to fly’ at once The night was appointed, but on the day preceding it, the nurse sought me, with a tale full of horror. De Coucy had been murdered the night before, his vast sura of money was miss ing, and my Isabelle had been arrested as his murderer. Two of De Coucy’s friends bad seen her hurrying from the direction of his chamber, in the dead of night, pale and terrified, and on search being made a portion of his money was found in her possession. This she re fused to account for, merely reiterating that she was guilty of a great crime but not of De Coucy’s death. Her father was stern and silent, and had allowed her to be taken to Paris in custody. I was horror-stricken, but firm in be lieving Isabelle innocent. I questioned the old woman, who was passionately de voted to her nursling, and to me, she con fessed, with bitter tears, that she thought her guilty. She eould not otherwise ac count for her possession of so large a sum of money, which was easily proved to be a portion of De Coucy’s treasure ; or fur the extreme terror and confession of hav ing committed a crime. I dared do nothing to aid her, as the least suspicion of my presence in the neighborhood, would be considered evi dence of her guilt, I would be arrested as,her confederate, and the greater por tion of the money, of which no trace could be found, would be supposed to have been carried off and secreted by me. How the missing links in the chain of evidence against her would be fully supplied. I knew that by silence and : prudence alone I could hope to aid her. j “You heard vaguely of her trial in j Paris, though it was kept profoundly se-' cret, as the Count was the warm per sonal friend of the Dauphin s. But so was De Coucy; and Louis, while sparing the father’s pride, yet used every effort to bring the daughter to the scaffold. He whom you know, never fails in accom plishing his object, succeeded in inducin *■ the reluctant King to sign her death-war rant, and in obedience to his will she was condemned to suffer at Rouen. You heard of the execution to take place on the morrow. It is my Isabelle who is to be the victim.” Exhausted by the violent emotioD, which had rendered the latter part of his speech nearly inaudible, De Mornay threw himself back in his chair, almost insen sible. The affectionate attention of Raoul failed to restore him to his wonted calm composure, and the night was spent in a storm of despair and agony. CHAPTER 11. THE EXECUTIONER OF ROUEN. In a handsome house, furnished with profuse magnificence, dwelt Bertrand Ogier, the executioner of Rouen. It was nine o’clock of the same evening on which De Mornay had confided to his Page the name of the mysterious stranger condemned to suffer on the morrow. Ogier was alone, pacing, with measured steps, the richly carpeted apartment, which was his favorite sitting-room. Di vested of his cloak and hat, the tall, ma jestic form, and proud face, were fully exposed to view. They were such as a sculptor would have chosen for his model of Olympian Jove; perfect in every pro portion, and with a brow, which seemed formed to wear a crown. There was something in his mien, to night, which spoke of no ordinary ex citement. His head was thrown proudly back, his dark eyes flashed with grati fied pride, and on his lips quivered a smile. He spoke, in low, rich tones as he paced the floor. “To-morrow, to-morrow, I will take my place among the nobles of France. For this I have toiled and waited; for this I have hardened my heart, nerved my arm, and beat down my pride; for this I have stained my hands with the blood of alike the innocent and the guilty; for this I have borne scorn, hatred, loathing from the common rabble, as well as from the noble and great. But to-morrow, my struggle ends—to-morrow this arm will strike its last blow upon the accursed block, and exchange the axe for a knight ly sword. My patent of nobility is ready and but awaits one final, successful stroke to make me, no longer Bertrand Ogier, the executioner of Rouen, but Bertrand Baron de Bellemonte, lord of the fairest estate in sunny Gascony’. Once a noble there is nothing under royalty to which I may not aspire. All, but high birth, na ture gave, and that I have won for my self. I have watched them all, these no bles of France; I have marked them in the field, the tournament, the council and the court. They will find me no novice in the accomplishments befitting a knight. I will take my place at once among them as their peer—nay, I have marked them well, and I can and will be their superior, Ah! my good, right arm,!’ and he shook it aloft, “thou will not fail me to-morrow. One blow, but one, and my dream of life is at last realized.” He ceased speaking, but his lips yet moved, as though the words were still articulated below his breath. Suddenly they became again audible. “A woman’s neck! ah, would that it were otherwise. It is slender aud easily severed; yet, would it were the stoutest throat ever shaded by a beard, rather than a woman’s white and delicate neck. I can nerve my arm, but it is harder far to nerve my heart; and I have never shed a woman’s blood. But I will not think of this; it makes me weak, when I must be most cool and strong. The Dauphin says she is a treacherous, blood-stained, wretch, who slew her father’s friend and guest, that she might rob him of his gold. What crime can be blacker than this ? Surely her doom is just.” He spoke again. “Eleven years ago, when a boy scarce seventeen, I swore to die a nobleman of France, and I have kept my vow. No other way opened before me, save that which lay over the scaffold, and I took it; no other weapon save the axe could carve out for me a place among those of lordly birth ; a place among my father’s peers: and I grasped it firmly and used it well. Once a woman’s cry, as she saw the axe descending upon her son, caused my arm to tremble, and I was forced to strike a second blow. Thrice has my victim escaped me by poison, and twice has a pardon wrenched him from me on the scaffold. Yet, eight noble heads have rolled in the dust, severed by one blow of this mighty arm ; and to-morrow, the ninth, and, Grace a Dicu, the last will fall, and I shall be a knight and noble of France. The Dau phin is my friend ; onee I saved his life, and the friends of Louis may climb to dizzie heights, for he will be no royal puppet, but a mule among men; a cruel despot perchance, but one who wields an absolute sway.” . He mused on in silence, until the sound of the clock striking eleven, roused him. He paused before the win dow, and looking out into the darkness, murmured: “What is she doing now, this poor crea ture, whose life must end the moment when mine commences ?” A sudden thought flashed into his mind ‘‘What if she escapes me!” he exclaim ed aloud. What if she, too, has obtained poison !” With an uncontrollable impulse, he seized his cloak and hat, and muffling himself up, so as to be safe from recogni tion, he strode rapidly down the deserted street, in the direction of the prison. It was necessary to pass the house in which De Mornay lodged, and the sighs and groans proceeding from the unhappy knight, reached the car of Ogier as he hurried by. “Ah,” he thought, “there is someone in sore distress. Perchance it is some relative of the unhappy prisoner. Truly mine is an accursed office.” He reached the prison and found no difficulty in gaining admission, even at that late hour. He stated his errand to the jailor, who, while assuring him that he need have no fear, willingly conduct ed him to the condemed cell. They moved cautiously, and, on reaching the door, Ogier stooped, and, looking through a narrow grated opening in the wall, saw, for the first time, the high-born prisoner. With a start of horror he drew noise sessly back, and signed to the jailor to open speedily. He was obeyed ; and as the heavy door swung back, he sprang forward, and seized the hand of the pris oner, as she was in the act of conveying a small phial to her lips. With a cry, in which surprise, terror and disappointment were blended with a strange sense of relief, the unhappy wo man fell upon her knees at Ogier’s feet, clinging to him and exclaiming: “Oh !do not take it from me! For the love of heaven do not take it from me !” Isabelle de Lisle was not yet nineteen, and beautiful as a poet’s dream. Although the rose of Provence had faded from her cheek and lips, under the weight of her sufferings, yet many would have pro nounced her even more wildly beautiful amid her deadly paler and disordered dress. The exquisite features, though wasted by agony, preserved their fault less beauty, and the deep Hue eyes, now dimmed by constant weeping, spoke to the heart with a power greater than they had ever possessed in their days of bright ness. The long, dark, waving hair float ed around her fragile form, reaching be low her waist, and enveloping her like a shadowy cloud. She was very small, seemingly a mere child, as she crouched at the feet of the stern and angry execu tioner. With a quick motion Ogier bade the jailor leave them, ere he asked harshly: “Do you know to whom you plead, wretched girl ? Do you know at whose hands you ask the means of self-destruc tion !” “No! No!” shrieked the supplican wildly. “I do not kuow your name, but* I see tha f you are noble and powerful. Perchance you are one of my .judges and can set me free. Oh, noble Sire! have mercy upon an innocent and helpless girl! Save me! Save me!” Ogier’s stern Bps quivered. She saw ISTo. 13.
