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VX)E. 11.
Written for the Banner <of the South-
The King’s Beil.
BY JAMES J. WEIGHT.
The King lay on his death-bed, he called
to him his son,
He grasped him firmly by the hand, and
pointed to the throne;
“My son,” he said, with trembling voice,
“this throne I leave to thee,
But with my sceptre pry thee take this
last advice from me:
“ Thou fondly dreamed that the world is
one wide bower of bliss;
Alasl dear boy, it is not so, be well
assured of this ;
In torrents wild grief surges on, by drops
joy trickles down,
And few indeed have water’d me, since
first I wore the crown.”
|le spoke and died. The son would fain
his father's word gainsay,
In roseate hues the earth lies bathed, as in
the light of May ;
Serene on high he smiling sits, and firm
resolved to show*
’Twas but a clouded spirit breathed those
oracles of woe.
So then upon the roof which crowns the
royal Hall so wide,
Where oft he feasts, and muses oft, and
dwells in kingly pride,
A rich toned silvery Bell is hung, full
lightly poised to fling
Its music down, if one below' but touch
the silken string.
When near and far his heralds speed,
proclaiming as they go
“Whenever, on our Sovereign’s heart, joy
spreads her genial glow'
Your Bell shall ring!” The Monarch hears,
and to himself he said,
“ Yes, every day my hand shall chime the
weary sun to bed !”
Day after day, a gladsome troop, the ro&y
morning come,
The evening sink in silence down, like
spectres pale and w r an ;
At times toward the useless cord his hand
out-stretched the King,
Then came a pang ; “Not yet!” he sighed.
The Bell I cannot ring.
And once he deemed his heart had found
at last a faithful friend.
“Now quick through all the land,” quoth
he, “the gladsome news I’ll send”
Y hen breathless to the presence speeds a
courier white with dust,
“Sire! leagued with thy foes is he in whom
thy soul did trust.”
And once on every sense was laid a deeper,
tender spell;
Reciprocated love shall ring sweet from
my Silver Bell!
Pale comes the trembling chancellor and
sighs, on bended knee,
“My Lord! on earth not even a Ivingmay
claim fidelity.”
As years glide on might not a Prince
rejoice in calm content,
kh treasures full, and wide domains, and
mighty ornament,
broad verdant fields, and fertile plains, and
fragrant meadows fair,
liere true and loving subjects, dwell
al ove them God’s free air.
Pewn Jeans he from the casement high;
''here e r his glances roam,
imrsery 0 f happiness appears each
humble home;
bis innocent is stirred. “Now! r.ow!
Wi s
ie . n ’ lo! within the Hall appears a
troubled, prostrate crowd.
King! despoil'd by fire and sword
our blazing homestead glow,
10 ” >er band wreaks havoc wild, our
trusted chief be thou!”
°' plundering knaves!” lie cries in
Bm Y a ! h ’ “y° n cord I must not draw,
" • I ., UCr: ln y falchion from its sheath, for
ttberty and law.”
Th feir traces on the Monarch now have
Ibo -! llle Suffering set.
,u still upon the roof the Bell hangs
4 ' el ;
a t times, a tranquil gleam of
g- I ‘ j ce Ins spirit cheers,
It wakes no echo from the Bell, calm
waiting through the years.
And now the final hour is near, enthroned
in chair of state,
lie hears wit hout a moaning and a sobbing
passionate,
“ My Chancellor ! I charge thee, tell what
mean these wailings sore,
“ The father is departing and the children
throng the door!”
“ Oh, let them in Lord Chancellor, let in
my children good!”
“If life could but be bought, my King,
they’d buy thine own in blood!”
Then pouring in with muffled tread his
faithful lieges press,
To see his royal face once more, to see
him, and to bless.
You love me then, my children ?” Quick
a thousand souls reply ;
He stands erect, and looks toward Heaven
with moist and saintly eye, - -
His hand is on the cord at last, the long
hushed Bell to ring,
And joy tolls forth a requiem to sooth the
dying King!
For the Banner of the South.
The Executioners Bride.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BARNWELL, BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
[continued.]
CHAPTER 111.
THE LAST HOPE OF RESCUE.
Ogier stood once more alone in the
apartment he had quitted scarce an hour
before. One short hour, and yet his
whole being seemed changed. He no
longer strode proudly through the room,
with head erect, Bashing eye, and smiling
lip; but sat in a large chair, his face
hidden in his folded arms, which rested
on the table.
Fie could not have saved her; he
knew how utterly impossible that would
have been; and yet his heart was filled
with remorse, as though, by his own act
he had left the unhappy girl to her terri
ble fate, after snatching from her the
only means of escape left in her power.
He could not shut from his sight her
beautiful pallid face and touching, child
like form; round his knees her arms
still seemed to cling in their despair and
terror; while in his oar still rung her
passionate, pleading voice, broken by
sobs, and wild with agonized entreaty.
With a deep groan, he raised his head,
and his eye fell upon an open book be
side him. The extended page contained
the law which decreed that the execu
tioner who should strike off, each with a sin
gle blow, the beads of nine persons of
noble birth, should himself become noble.
He read it slowly, striving to reawaken
the proud thoughts which had filled his
breast, ere he departed for his visit to the
prison. It was in vain. His eye glanced
carelessly to the opposite page, and read
these words :
“ Should an unmarried female be
condemned to death , the executioner
may save her life and doaicag with all
punishment whatsoever , to which she
hath been appointed , by marrying her,
ere the hour of her doom hath sounded .”
Ogier sprung to his feet, with an excla
mation of joy, striking his open hand
upon the page :
“I will save her!” he cried aloud,
and she shall be mine—all mine !”
He thought of the hope of his life-time
which must again elude his grasp, and
his purpose wavered; but he thought of
Isabelle, and his resolution returned.
He had grown from earliest childhood
lived alone and unloved, and as he grew
towards man’s estate his whole heart
had been filled with the one ambitious
dream of becoming noble. To fit him
selt tor that high position, he had toiled
unwearyinglyq and there was no accom
plishment known to that age in which
he did not excel. And this was all done
alone. No loving eye watched his pro
gress, no loving voice cheered him in the 1
.A-TJ GrJJ STA, GA., JUNE 19, 1869.
hours of his depression, no loving heart
gave him ready sympathy. And he
bad never craved it all—at least he
knew not that he had. He thought
ambition filled his heart; but now that
he had allowed love to enter there,
taking by storm the fortress he
gave him ready sympathy. And he
had never craved it all—at least he
knew not that he had. He thought
ambition filled his heart; but now that
deemed impregnable, it mastered com
pletely his strong, passionate nature, in
toxicating him with the wild and thrill
ing delight of this novel emotion.
As he stood with his hand resting upon
that open page, a dazzling vision passed
rapidly before his mind. He saw a fairy
form beside him in that lonely room; be
felt a soft band resting in his own; to his
face those deep blue orbs, he had seen
dimmed with fear and weeping, were
raised bright and seft with joy and ten
derness; and he heard her voice, clear
and silvery, calling him her preserver,
her love, her hujfband. It was very
strange and sweet t > the lonely, passion
ate man, and it brought light to his eye
and a smile to his lip which they had
never known before.
Suddenly anew thought struck him,
and it seemed to pierce his heart like a
sword-thrust. What if she refused his
succor on such terms, preferring death to
a union with one whom her whole being
seemed to loathe anA- shrink from ? In
that case, he would, with his own arm be
forced to strike the fatal blow It was an
idea fraught with horror to him now,
and yet, so lately, it had filled him with
triumphant joy.
He glanced at the clock. It was now
past one, and she must suffer at ten.
Only eight hours in which to save her !
He hurriedly resumed his cloak and hat,
aud again sought the prison.
The jailer eyed him suspiciously as he
gave the order to be admitted to the
condemned cell, but he dared not refuse
him entrance. He contented himself
with summoning two comrades to share
his watch in the corridor without.
Ogier found the prisoner seated on her
rude bed, sunk in a stupor of despair.
She recognized him, and uttered a cry of
fear and horror. He came and stood be
side her, speaking low, and hoarsely:
“ Lady, ” he said, “I left you with an
assurance that it was out of my power to
save you from your dreadful doom. I
was wrong. I had forgotten one clause,
by which, on a single condition, I could
snatch you from the death you fear, and
set you free, with no penalty hanging
over your head. But this I can only do
with your consent. In your own hands
lies your fate.”
She sprang to her feet, trembling with
unlooked lor hope. Clasping her hands,
she cried passionately,
“ And you will save me from that fear
ful, fearful death! Oh, the God of
mercy bless you, forever and ever !”
*' I will do all that lies in my power,”
lie answered in a voice which quivered
with emotion;” but, your fate rests with
yourself. Unless you consent to the
condition, I can do nothing.”
“My consent! Oh, you mock me. Is
there aught 1 would not do for safety
and for freedom ? Speak ! Name this
condition ; but it is already accepted.”
He drew a step nearer to her, and
paused a moment ere he spoke: When
his answer came, it was so low that she
bent forward to hear it:
“At ten o’clock in the morning, you
die,” he muttered. “ If, before that hour
you are wedded to me, life and liberty
are yours. Do you still consent ?”
She shrank from him, horror and
loathing in her face and gesture:
“ Wedded to you, the Executioner of
Rouen !” she cried. “God of Heaven!
how have I so deeply offended thee ?”
“ You will not consent then ?” said
Ogier, bitterly. “ You prefer death to a
marriage with me ?”
“ Mon Dieu, have mercy! have mercy!”
cried the girl, wildly. “ Man, do you
know what it is you ask ? What! I, the
the daughter of Marcus, Count de Lisle,
in whose veins flow the blood of Charle
magne ! I, the betrothed of Gaston de
Morna}’, the bravest knight of France !
that I should so degrade myself, so dis
honor the noble house to which I belong
as to wed a low-bom, blood stained exe
cutioner ?”
Hoes this prison cell, the sentence
under which you lie, the crime of which
they have found you guilty, not degrade
you then replied Ogier sternly. “Is
it no dishonor to your noble house that
you die a criminal on the public scaffold
amid the gaze and the shoutings of the
rabble throng ? llemernber, your only
salvation from this lies in being my
bride.”
“You insult me!” cried Isabelle,
proudly, her pale cheek crimsoning at
his wordsj “I am innocent of the crime
for which I must die. Think you, I have
fallen so low, that I would accept dishonor
to save myself from death ? I do not
believe your words. When such as 3*oll
delight in witnessing agony, and you
have brought this tale to my ear that vou
might raise my hopes fur a few brief
moments, and then crush them, with a
smile at my anguish. Cruel, inhuman
wretch, leave me to my misery until we
meet to-morrow.”
Ogier threw from him the cloak and
hat, which had partial!}’ concealed his
form and features, and standing erect
before her, in the pride of his noble and
perfect beauty, said calmly:
“ Listen to my story, lady, ere you re*
ject this your last chance" for life. In
my veins flows blood as noble as your
own. My father was a gallant Count of
France, who fell by an English sword
while I was yet an infant; but my mother
was a peasant maid of LaDguedoc. She,
too, died ere I could speak plainly, and I
was left to the cold, unwilling charity of
her brother. Even as a child, I felt that
I was different from the humble people
around me; and when, at the age of
sixteen, my harsh uncle revealed to me
my father’s name, coupled with bitter
taunts upon my pride and impatience of
control, I swore that I, too, would die a
noble. At first I dreamed of winning
my prize on the field of buttle, but I soon
knew how vain was such a hope. While
almost in despair, I was thrown with the
executioner of Rouen. He was kind to
me, and I told him of my purpose. He
gave ready sympathy, and offered to
place me in the only path to success.
The severing of nine noble heads, each at
a single blow, raised an executioner to
the rank of a noble of France. He had
already severed six; and he offered to
take me as his assistant, to teach me his
bloody trade, and when he had struck his
last blow, to procure me the position
which he filled. I was young, bitter, am
bitious and desperate. I consented. Al
ready have eight noble heads fallen by
one blow from my arm ; yours would
have been the ninth and last. To-morrow,
at the moment of your death, the object
of my life would have beeu attained.
Some inspiration made me think that
you might have procured poison, and 1
hurried to your cell in time to frustrate
your purpose. I left you, an altered man.
Love and pity entered into my lonely
heart, and struggled fiercely with ambi
tion which had ruled there so long unri
valled. They conquered. By chance,
my eye fell upon the law which gives
me the sole means of saving you. One
more blow of this strong arm wins me
nobility. The Dauphin stands my friend,
and the chance to strike it will not bo
long delayed. It shall be the only one
I will ever strike again. lam wealthy,
and I make no vain boast when I say,
that there is not a knight in France more
skilled in all knightly accomplishments
than myself. Lady,’ and his cairn tooe
changed to one low and passionate, “fairest
lady, I love thee My life shall have for
its highest object, your happiness. If
courage and strength, and resolution have
power to win lame and honor, as my wife,
they shall be yours. I will win them
and lay them at your feet. I have done
much—l can and will do more. Will
you still choose death rather than my
love V’
Bhe stood with her eyes fixed upon
his noble, eloquent face, listening to
every word with trembling eagerness.
W hen he paused for her reply, she burst
into a flood of wild, tempestuous weep
ing. He approached and bent over her,
but she waved him off.
“ I know not what to do,” she cried
pitifully. “ God help me! It is too
terrible !”
In a.few moments Ogier spoke again,
in low, gentle tones, full of respect, pity
and tenderness:
“ Hady, I will leave }’ou now,” he
said, “to think of all I have told you. I
would not press you fora speedy answer,
were it in my power to command dela} r .
But it is not; and ten o’clock must find
you the bride of death or of me. God
knows, I would set } 7 ou free, unshackled
b} T a single condition, were it in my
pow er, even though I feel it would bring
me a suffering, new, and far keener than
aught I have known before. But I am
powerless. I will come at nine for your
auswer. A priest shah be near, and if
you consent to accept my band, the mar
riage must take place instantly; as the
law requires that the fatal hour find us
wedded. Sweet lady, farewell.”
And he hurried from the cell, leaving
Isabelle sobbing wildl}’.
CHAPTER IV.
ISABELLE’S DECISION.
For many moments, Isabelle continued
to weep bitterly; and it was not until
exhausted by the violence of her emo
tion, she sank back upon her rude couch,
that her thoughts turned to the deci
sion which lay before her.
Either alternative was fraught with
the keenest horror. Hers was not a soul
which, sustained by the consciousness
of innocence, could meet courageously
the reverses and storms* of life. She
was young, and fair, and gentle, with
a heart tender and loving, and a tem
per as sunny as the skies of her own
Provence. She was formed to cling in
blind trust and obedience to a stronger
and higher nature; not to stand alone.
She was singularly romantic, a true
daughter of Provence, and full of purity
and unselfishness; but she was weak,
irresolute, and a child of impulse. No
circumstances could ever have made her
guilty of the crime of which she was
accused; but it was her own wrong act
that had brought suspicion upon her.
The true state of the case was this :
Her father possessed a nature marked
by self-love, baseness, avarice, and an
utter absence of principle. He had been
aware of the immense sum of money
the Sire de Coucy had beneath his roof,
and in the dead of night he entered the
chamber of his guest, and robbed him
of his treasure. As lie was about to
leave the room, raising his eyes care
lessly to a mirror, which faced him, he
saw that De Coucy was awake, and
watching him intently. As he moved,
the victim closed his eyes, pretending
slumber; but the (Punt knew that it
was feigned, and that he was lost. His
plan was quickly formed; with a stealtbv
step he approached the bed, apparently
to make sure that his guest slept soundly.
Dc Coney did not move, and raising his
head, as if satisfied, the Count turned
half away; then, with a sudden motion,
he wheeled back, and buried a con
cealed dagger in the heart of his vic
tim. So well aimed and vigorous was
the blow, that the old man scarcely
groaned, ere he lay a corpse.
On reaching his chamber, with the
money, the Count discovered that he
had left his dagger, which, being well
known, and never out of his possession,
No. 14.