“Sire, suppose you were to appear before the court, to plead your own cause?”

“Silence, sir, silence!” said Murat.  “I could, not officially recognise the judges you have named without tearing too many pages of history.  Such tribunal is quite incompetent; I should be disgraced if I appeared before it.  I know I could not save my life, let me at least preserve my royal dignity.”

At this moment Lieutenant Francesco Froio came in to interrogate the prisoner, asking his name, his age, and his nationality.  Hearing these questions, Murat rose with an expression of sublime dignity.

“I am Joachim Napoleon, King of the Two Sicilies,” he answered, “and I order you to leave me.”

The registrar obeyed.

Then Murat partially dressed himself, and asked Stratti if he could write a farewell to his wife and children.  The Captain no longer able to speak, answered by an affirmative sign; then Joachim sat down to the table and wrote this letter: 

“Dear Caroline of my heart,—­The fatal moment has come:  I am to suffer the death penalty.  In an hour you will be a widow, our children will be fatherless:  remember me; never forget my memory.  I die innocent; my life is taken from me unjustly.

“Good-bye, Achilles good-bye, Laetitia; goodbye, Lucien; good-bye, Louise.

“Show yourselves worthy of me; I leave you in a world and in a kingdom full of my enemies.  Show yourselves superior to adversity, and remember never to think yourselves better than you are, remembering what you have been.

“Farewell.  I bless you all.  Never curse my memory.  Remember that the worst pang of my agony is in dying far from my children, far from my wife, without a friend to close my eyes.  Farewell, my own Caroline.  Farewell, my children.  I send you my blessing, my most tender tears, my last kisses.  Farewell, farewell.  Never forget your unhappy father,

“Pizzo, Oct. 13, 1815”

[We can guarantee the authenticity of this letter, having copied it ourselves at Pizzo, from the Lavaliere Alcala’s copy of the original]

Then he cut off a lock of his hair and put it in his letter.  Just then General Nunziante came in; Murat went to him and held out his hand.

“General,” he said, “you are a father, you are a husband, one day you will know what it is to part from your wife and sons.  Swear to me that this letter shall be delivered.”

“On my epaulettes,” said the general, wiping his eyes. [Madame Murat never received this letter.]

“Come, come, courage, general,” said Murat; “we are soldiers, we know how to face death.  One favour—­you will let me give the order to fire, will you not?”

The general signed acquiescence:  just then the registrar came in with the king’s sentence in his hand.

Murat guessed what it was.

“Read, sir,” he said coldly; “I am listening.”