removed from the Court, as the King might have observed; but that he was a villain that nothing could alter, that the King could see the extremities to which he had proceeded against her, that she insisted on his being brought to justice; and that if that satisfaction was denied her she would know the reason of it.
The manner in which she spoke to the King alarmed him, for he knew her to be one of the most violent women in the world; she had much power, and she was quite capable of overturning the kingdom. Fortuné's boldness merited an exemplary punishment; everybody was already aware of what had occurred, and his own feelings ought to prompt him to avenge his sister. But, alas! upon whom was this vengeance to alight?—upon a gentleman who had exposed himself to so many perils in his service, to whom he was indebted for peace, and all his treasures, and for whom he had a particular affection,—he would have given half his life to have saved his dear favourite. He represented to the Queen how useful he had been to him, the services he had rendered the kingdom, his youth, and everything that might induce her to pardon him. She would not hear of it,—she demanded his death. The King, finding he could not possibly avoid having him tried, appointed the mildest and most tender-hearted judges, in hopes they would visit the offence as light as possible.
But he was mistaken in his conjectures; the judges were for establishing their reputation at the expense of this unfortunate prisoner; and as it was an affair that would make much noise in the world, they armed themselves with the utmost severity, and condemned Fortuné without deigning to hear him. His sentence was, that he should be stabbed three times to the heart with a poignard, because it was his heart that was guilty.
The King trembled at this sentence as though it had been passed upon himself; he banished all the judges who had pronounced it, but could not save his beloved Fortuné;[1] and
- ↑ This punishment of the judges without respiting the accused, is an incident which appears to have been founded on a strange story of Arragonese justice, told by the Countess in her Travels into Spain, "Yet what is no less singular," she says, "is, that justice remains always sovereign; and though the unjust judge be punished severely for his wrong decree, yet it subsists in its full force and is fully
