# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 69

CHAPTER X.
"Let me die,
At least, with an unshackled eye." Byron.
The fresh air of the open windows, as they came to the inhabited part of the house, revived Francesca, though, when the soldier, who had found his way to the kitchen, gave her to the care of the astonished Aylmer himself, she was still too dizzy and too confused to he conscious of her situation. Lawrence gave her a glass of water, and, restored in some degree, she silently accepted his aid to reach their usual room. On their entrance, Aylmer was greeted by a new surprise—his daughter Lucy, whom he very naturally supposed was quietly in her bed, lay on the window-seat, the casement open, and herself asleep; but the traces of tears were upon her cheek, and her long fair hair loose, and yet saturated with the dews of the night.
​ "For God's sake, let her sleep at any hazard!" whispered Francesca, now fully recalled to all that had passed and was passing. "Another time for explanation. Poor, poor Lucy!" added she, as her mind reverted to the terrible awakening before her.
"I must go," rejoined Aylmer, "And keep some sort of order; for my house is turned inside out." Then, gazing earnestly at Lucy, he said in a low tone, "I will not—dare not, ask what this means now; my dear, my beautiful child!"—but his voice failed, and he hurried from the chamber.
"Anything rather than this torturing suspense!" cried Francesca, who had been standing with her face buried in her hands. "I can look into the yard from Lucy's bed-room—pray God that she may not awake!"
With that dizzy yet desperate feeling which braces even to the last the over-wrought nerves, Francesca cast one more glance on the unconscious sleeper, whose bright hair and flushed cheek were golden and rosy as the morning now breaking around her; but Lucy was too thoroughly exhausted to awaken. There she lay, her head pillowed upon her arm, like a child that had cried itself to rest; while Francesca bent over her, pale, cold as a statue, for lip and cheek were ​both white—only the blue veins were swollen on the forehead, and the large closed eyes wore a strange expression, most unlike their usual intellectual darkness. With a light yet hurried step, she went upstairs, and approached the lattice. At first she could not force herself to look out; but the agony of endurance grew insupportable, and she leant forth. Her worst fears were not realised; but there was enough to alarm her in the unusual aspect of the place. It was now about six o'clock, and that first freshness was on the air, which is to the day what youth is to life,—so light, so elastic, so sweet, and so brief: the roofs of the thatched buildings glittered with the moisture rapidly drying up; the fragrant breath of the cows, the long lingering odour from the hayricks, were so perceptible on the clear atmosphere; long shadows came down from the house and the trees, but they only made more visible the golden transparency of the sunshine.
"O God!" cried Francesca, "this contrast of the glad external world is dreadful to that within!"
The farm-yard, though morning was upon it, showed none of its usual morning activity; the hinds stood staring and bewildered in knots of some two or three, who appeared as though they sought to draw nigh to each other for protection, ​not companionship, and cast half-sullen, half-scared looks at the intruders on their own domain. The soldiers were scattered about, some talking to each other with the most careless indifference, others collected round a gaunt-looking sergeant, who was reading from a small Bible, and whose nasal accents were audible, though Francesca could not catch the words. A small body of dismounted troopers were lounging near the gate, waiting for their leader's call to boot and saddle; but there was one party that riveted her eye—six men, of grave and determined bearing, who stood apart, leaning upon their carbines. The domestic fowls alone seemed undisturbed by the unusual visitors, unless a more than ordinary noise of chirping and fluttering marked something of fear: but the large house-dog could not be quieted, and kept up that savage bark and growl which indicated its consciousness of intrusion and danger. Suddenly all eyes turned in one direction, and Major Johnstone came from the house, followed by the prisoner and four soldiers. Francis stepped lightly forward, and flung round a glance of the most careless contempt; and as he passed below the window, Francesca could hear him humming the notes of a popular loyalist song peculiarly obnoxious to the rigid fanatics. The insult ​caused many a dark brow to turn scowling upon him; but he paid them back glance for glance, and met every frown with a smile. He reached the appointed place; and, at a sign from Major Johnstone, one of the troopers drew out a handkerchief, and attempted to bind his eyes. The prisoner flung him off with a force scarcely to be expected from one of his slight figure, and, turning quickly, said, "Let me die like a man!—whatever is my death, let me face it!" No further effort was made to blindfold him; but the carbineers formed their deadly rank, looking, however, towards their commander for the signal.
"I will myself give the word!" cried Evelyn. "When I take off my hat, fire!"
Francesca had hitherto looked on with that sort of charmed gaze with which the fascinated bird watches the grey and glittering eye of the serpent which forces it to its doom; but womanly terror now mastering strong excitement, she knelt down, and, hiding her face in her hands, muttered incoherent ejaculations of prayer.
Major Johnstone had, by a stern gesture of assent, marked his permission for the prisoner to give his own death signal; and Francis, after a leisurely survey, expressive of the utmost contumely of the iron faces that darkened round him, ​raised his hand to his head;—every carbine was raised too, in preparation; and the sudden rise of the steel tubes flashed like some strange meteor in the sun.
"God save King Charles!" exclaimed the reckless cavalier and flung his white plumed hat in the air.
A loud burst of musketry rang far away into the distant forest; many echoes took it up, and repeated the mimic thunder; a strange screaming rose from the startled birds;—but loud above them all was heard the shriek of a woman.
Lucy, rousing from her sleep, as the morning light fell upon her face, had sought her own chamber; she had entered unperceived by Francesca, who was kneeling in that last horror of having to look on a violent death. Approaching her friend, she was startled by the report of the carbines—scarcely aware of her own act, she had looked from the lattice, and saw Major Johnstone standing in the cold triumph of gratified revenge beside the body of a cavalier, whose life-blood was welling in a crimson flood to his feet. At a glance Lucy recognised Francis Evelyn.