“My lord, you look upon me with a terrible countenance that makes me tremble.  But on my knees I entreat you, have mercy on me if I have done wrong, for God is my witness that I did not call you to this kingdom with any criminal intention:  I have always desired, and still desire, your supremacy in all the sincerity of my soul.  Some treacherous counsellors, I am certain, have contrived to draw down your hatred upon me.  If it is true, as you say, that I went with an armed force to Aquila I was compelled by Queen Joan, and I could not do otherwise; but as soon as I heard of your arrival at Fermo I took my troops away again.  I hope for the love of Christ I may obtain your mercy and pardon, by reason of my former services and constant loyalty.  But as I see you are now angry with me, I say no more waiting for your fury to pass over.  Once again, my lord, have pity upon us, since we are in the hands of your Majesty.”

The king turned away his head, and retired slowly, confiding the prisoners to the care of Stephen Vayvoda and the Count of Zornic, who guarded them during the night in a room adjoining the king’s chamber.  The next day Louis held another meeting of his council, and ordered that Charles should have his throat cut on the very spot where poor Andre had been hanged.  He then sent the other princes of the blood, loaded with chains, to Hungary, where they were long kept prisoners.  Charles, quite thunderstruck by such an unexpected blow, overwhelmed by the thought of his past crimes, trembled like a coward face to face with death, and seemed completely crushed.  Bowed, upon his knees, his face half hidden in his hands, from time to time convulsive sobs escaped him, as he tried to fix the thoughts that chased each other through his mind like the shapes of a monstrous dream.  Night was in his soul, but every now and then light flashed across the darkness, and over the gloomy background of his despair passed gilded figures fleeing from him with smiles of mockery.  In his ears buzzed voices from the other world; he saw a long procession of ghosts, like the conspirators whom Nicholas of Melazzo had pointed out in the vaults of Castel Nuovo.  But these phantoms each held his head in his hand, and shaking it by the hair, bespattered him with drops of blood.  Some brandished whips, some knives:  each threatened Charles with his instrument of torture.  Pursued by the nocturnal train, the hapless man opened his mouth for one mighty cry, but his breath was gone, and it died upon his lips.  Then he beheld his mother stretching out her arms from afar, and he fancied that if he could but reach her he would be safe.  But at each step the path grew more and more narrow, pieces of his flesh were torn off by the approaching walls; at last, breathless, naked and bleeding, he reached his goal; but his mother glided farther away, and it was all to begin over again.  The phantoms pursued him, grinning and screaming in his ears:—­

“Cursed be he who slayeth his mother!”