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“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
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