Four o’clock struck.

Murat went to the door himself and opened it.

General Nunziante was waiting for him.

“Thank you, general,” said Murat.  “You have kept your word.  Kiss me, and go at once, if you like.”

The general threw himself into the king’s arms, weeping, and utterly unable to speak.

“Courage,” said Murat.  “You see I am calm.”  It was this very calmness which broke the general’s heart.  He dashed out of the corridor, and left the castle, running like a madman.

Then the king walked out into the courtyard.

Everything was ready for the execution.

Nine men and a corporal were ranged before the door of the council chamber.  Opposite them was a wall twelve feet high.  Three feet away from the wall was a stone block:  Murat mounted it, thus raising himself about a foot above the soldiers who were to execute him.  Then he took out his watch,[Madame Murat recovered this watch at the price of 200 Louis] kissed his wife’s portrait, and fixing his eyes on it, gave the order to fire.  At the word of command five out of the nine men fired:  Murat remained standing.  The soldiers had been ashamed to fire on their king, and had aimed over his head.  That moment perhaps displayed most gloriously the lionlike courage which was Murat’s special attribute.  His face never changed, he did not move a muscle; only gazing at the soldiers with an expression of mingled bitterness and gratitude, he said: 

“Thank you; my friends.  Since sooner or later you will be obliged to aim true, do not prolong my death-agonies.  All I ask you is to aim at the heart and spare the face.  Now——­”

With the same voice, the same calm, the same expression, he repeated the fatal words one after another, without lagging, without hastening, as if he were giving an accustomed command; but this time, happier than the first, at the word “Fire!” he fell pierced by eight bullets, without a sigh, without a movement, still holding the watch in his left hand.

The soldiers took up the body and laid it on the bed where ten minutes before he had been sitting, and the captain put a guard at the door.

In the evening a man presented himself, asking to go into the death-chamber:  the sentinel refused to let him in, and he demanded an interview with the governor of the prison.  Led before him, he produced an order.  The commander read it with surprise and disgust, but after reading it he led the man to the door where he had been refused entrance.

“Pass the Signor Luidgi,” he said to the sentinel.

Ten minutes had hardly elapsed before he came out again, holding a bloodstained handkerchief containing something to which the sentinel could not give a name.

An hour later, the carpenter brought the coffin which was to contain the king’s remains.  The workman entered the room, but instantly called the sentinel in a voice of indescribable terror.