Murat
listened with a disdainful smile.

"Ah," he said, as the captain finished, "it seems that every precaution
has been taken."

"How, sire?"

"Yes. Don't you know that all these men, with the exception of Francesco
Froio, the reporter; owe their promotion to me? They will be afraid of
being accused of sparing me out of gratitude, and save one voice,
perhaps, the sentence will be unanimous."

"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 ha