Now that the bells were ringing for the dying moments of the good king, every mind was full of these prophetic words:  women prayed fervently to God; men from all parts of the town bent their steps towards the royal palace to get the earliest and most authentic news, and after waiting some moments, passed in exchanging sad reflections, were obliged to return as they had come, since nothing that went on in the privacy of the family found its way outside—­the castle was plunged in complete darkness, the drawbridge was raised as usual, and the guards were at their post.

Yet if our readers care to be present at the death of the nephew of Saint Louis and the grandson of Charles of Anjou, we may conduct them into the chamber of the dying man.  An alabaster lamp suspended from the ceiling serves to light the vast and sombre room, with walls draped in black velvet sewn with golden fleur-de-lys.  Near the wall which faces the two entrance doors that at this moment are both shut close, there stands beneath a brocaded canopy an ebony bed, supported on four twisted columns carved with symbolic figures.  The king, after a struggle with a violent paroxysm, has fallen swooning in the arms of his confessor and his doctor, who each hold one of his dying hands, feeling his pulse anxiously and exchanging looks of intelligence.  At the foot of the bed stands a woman about fifty years of age, her hands clasped, her eyes raised to heaven, in an attitude of resigned grief:  this woman is the queen, No tears dim her eyes:  her sunken cheek has that waxen yellow tinge that one sees on the bodies of saints preserved by miracle.  In her look is that mingling of calm and suffering that points to a soul at once tried by sorrow and imbued with religion.  After the lapse of an hour, while no movement had disturbed the profound silence which reigned about the bed of death, the king trembled slightly; opened his eyes, and endeavoured feebly to raise his head.  They thanking the physician and priest with a smile, who had both hastened to arrange his pillows, he begged the queen to come near, and told her in a low voice that he would speak with her a moment alone.  The doctor and confessor retired, deeply bowing, and the king followed them with his eyes up to the moment when one of the doors closed behind them.  He passed his hand across his brow, as though seeking to collect his thoughts, and rallying all his forces for the supreme effort, pronounced these words: 

“What I must say to you, Sancha, has no concern with those two good persons who were here a moment ago:  their task is ended.  One has done all for my body that human science could teach him, and all that has come of it is that my death is yet a little deferred; the other has now absolved me of all my sins, and assured me of God’s forgiveness, yet cannot keep from me those dread apparitions which in this terrible hour arise before me.  Twice have you seen me battling with a superhuman horror.  My brow has been bathed in sweat, my limbs rigid, my cries have been stifled by a hand of iron.  Has God permitted the Evil Spirit to tempt me?  Is this remorse in phantom shape?  These two conflicts I have suffered have so subdued my strength that I can never endure a third.  Listen then, my Sandra, for I have instructions to give you on which perhaps the safety of my soul depends.”