He was reminded that the morrow was the anniversary of that father's murder upon that very spot--by those with whom the son would now make his treasonable peace.

He was bidden to tear up but a few stones from the pavement beneath his feet, that the hero's blood might cry out against him from the very ground.
Tears of shame and fury sprang from the young man's eyes as he listened to these biting sarcasms, but the night closed upon that memorable square, and still the Count was a prisoner.

Eleven years before, the summer stars had looked down upon a more dense array of armed men within that place.

The preparations for the pompous and dramatic execution, which on the morrow was to startle all Europe, had been carried out in the midst of a hushed and overawed population; and now, on the very anniversary of the midnight in which that scaffold had risen, should not the grand spectre of the victim have started from the grave to chide his traitorous son?
Thus for a whole day and night was the baffled conspirator compelled to remain in the ignominious position which he had selected for himself.

On the morning of the 5th of June he was permitted to depart, by a somewhat inexplicable indulgence, together with all his followers.