The Historical Nights' Entertainment - Rafael Sabatini (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📗

“

 

“He will not recover.” It was the cold, passionless voice of

Ankarstrom that spoke. “My pistol was loaded with rusty nails. I

intended to make quite sure of ridding my country of that perjured

tyrant.”

 

Armfelt stared at the prisoner a moment with furious, bloodshot eyes.

Then he broke into imprecations, stemmed only when Lillesparre

ordered Ankarstrom to be removed. When he was gone, the chief of

police turned to Bjelke.

 

“It grieves me, Baron, that we should meet thus, and it is with

difficulty that I can believe what is alleged against you. Baron

Armfelt is perhaps rendered hasty by his grief and righteous anger.

But I hope that you will be able to explain - at least to deny your

concern in this horrible deed.”

 

Very tense and white stood Bjelke.

 

“I have an explanation that should satisfy you as a man of honour,”

he said quietly, “but not as chief of the police. I joined this

conspiracy that I might master its scope and learn the intentions

of the plotters. It was a desperate thing I did out of love and

loyalty to the King, and I succeeded. I came tonight to the

palace with information which should not only have saved the King’s

life, but would have enabled him to smother the conspiracy for all

time. On the threshold of his room this letter for the King was

delivered into my hands. Read it, Lillesparre, that you may know

precisely what manner of master you serve, that you may understand

how Gustavus of Sweden recompenses love and loyalty. Read it, and

tell me how you would have acted in my place!”

 

And he flung the letter on to the writing-table at which sat

Lillesparre.

 

The chief of police took it up, began to read, turned back to the

superscription, then resumed his reading, a dull flush overspreading

his face. Over his shoulder Armfelt, too, was reading. But Bjelke

cared not. Let all the world behold that advertisement of royal

infamy, that incriminating love-letter from Bjelke’s wife to the

King who had dishonoured him.

 

Lillesparre was stricken dumb. He dared not raise his eyes to meet

the glance of the prisoner. But the shameless Armfelt sucked in a

breath of understanding.

 

“You admit your guilt, then?” he snarled.

 

“That I sent the monster to the masquerade, knowing that there the

blessed hand of Ankarstrom would give him his passport out of a

world he had befouled - yes.”

 

“The rack shall make you yield the name of every one of the

conspirators.”

 

“The rack!” Bjelke smiled disdainfully, and shrugged. “Your men,

Lillesparre, were very prompt and very obdurate. They would not

allow me to take leave of the Baroness, so that she has escaped me.

But I am not sure that it is not a fitter vengeance to let her live

and remember. That letter may now be delivered to the King, for

whom it is intended. Its fond messages may lighten the misery of

his remaining hours.”

 

His face was contorted, with rage, thought Armfelt, who watched him,

but in reality with pain caused by the poison that was corroding

his vitals. He had drained a little phial just before stepping into

the presence of Lillesparre, as they discovered upon inquiries made

after he had collapsed dead at their feet.

 

This caused them to bring back Ankarstrom, that he might be searched,

lest he, too, should take some similar way of escaping them. When

he search was done, having discovered nothing, Lillesparre commanded

that he should not have knife or fork or metal comb, or anything

with which he might take his life.

 

“You need not fear that I shall seek to evade the sacrifice,” he

assured them, his demeanour haughty, his eyes aglow with fanatic

zeal. “It is the price I pay for having rid Nature of a monster

and my country of a false, perjured tyrant, and I pay it gladly.”

As he ceased he smiled, and drew from the gold lace of his sleeve

a surgeon’s lancet. “This was supplied me against my need to open

a vein. But the laws of God and man may require my death upon the

scaffold.”

 

And, smiling, he placed the lancet on Lillesparre’s table.

 

Upon his conviction execution followed, and it lasted three days -

from April 19th to 21 st - being attended by all the horrible and

gradual torturings reserved for regicides. Yet possibly he did

not suffer more than his victim, whose agony had lasted for

thirteen days, and who perished miserably in the consciousness that

he deserved his fate, whilst Ankarstrom was uplifted and fortified

by his fanaticism.

 

The scaffold was erected on the Stora Torget, facing the Opera House

of Stockholm, where the assassination had taken place. Thence the

dismembered remains of Ankarstrom were conveyed to the ordinary

gallows in the suburb of Sodermalm to be exhibited, the right hand

being nailed below the head. Under this hand on the morrow was

found a tablet bearing the legend:

 

Blessed the hand

That saved the Fatherland.

 

End of Project Gutenberg’s Historical Nights’ Entertainment, by Sabatini