Immediately the hall was surrounded by a
riotous mob, clamoring for their blood. At one moment the outer doors
were burst open, and the blood-thirsty wretches made a rush for the
interior. The king, believing that their final hour had come, begged his
friends to seek their own safety, and abandon him and his family to
their fate. The day of agitation and terror, however, passed away, and,
as the gloom of night again darkened the city, the illustrious
sufferers were reconveyed to the Feuillants. All their friends were
driven from them, and guards were placed over them, who, by rudeness and
insults, did what they could to add bitterness to their captivity.

It was decided by the Assembly that they should all be removed to the
prison of the Temple. At three o'clock the next day two carriages were
brought to the door, and the royal family were conveyed through the
thronged streets and by the most popular thoroughfares to the prison.
The enemies of royalty appeared to court the ostentatious display of its
degradation. As the carriages were slowly dragged along, an immense
concourse of spectators lined the way, and insults and derision were
heaped upon them at every step. At last, after two hours, in which they
were constrained to drain the cup of ignominy to its dregs, the
carriages rolled under the gloomy arches of the Temple, and their prison
doors were closed against them.

In the mean time the allied army was advancing with rapid strides toward
the city. The most dreadful consternation reigned in the metropolis. The
populace rose in its rage to massacre all suspected of being in favor of
royalty. The prisons were crowded with the victims of suspicion. The
rage of the mob would not wait for trial. The prison doors were burst
open, and a general and awful massacre ensued. There was no mercy shown
to the innocence of youth or to female helplessness. The streets of
Paris were red with the blood of its purest citizens, and the spirit of
murder, with unrestrained license, glutted its vengeance. In one awful
day and night many thousands perished. The walls of rock and iron of the
Temple alone protected the royal family from a similar fate.

The Temple was a dismal fortress which stood in the heart of Paris, a
gloomy memorial of past ages of violence and crime. It was situated not
far from the Bastile, and inclosed within its dilapidated yet massive
walls a vast space of silence and desolation. In former ages cowled
monks had