unclad, before the populace.

Gerald caught but one glance at the ribald portrait, and then with a
spring he seized and tore it into atoms. The action seemed to arouse in
him all the dormant passion of his nature; for in an instant he clutched
Courtel by the throat, and tried to strangle him. It was not without
a severe struggle that he was rescued by the others, and Gerald thrown
back, bruised and beaten, on his bed.

From this unlucky hour forth Gerald's comrades held themselves all aloof
from him. He was no longer in their eyes the poor and harmless object
they had believed, but a wild and dangerous maniac. His life henceforth
was one unbroken solitude; not a word of kindness or sympathy met his
ear. The little fragments of cheering tidings others interchanged, none
shared with him, and he sank into a state of almost sleep. Nor was it a
small privilege to sleep, while millions around him were keeping their
orgie of blood; when the cries of the dying and the shouts of vengeance
were mingled in one long, loud strain, and the monotonous stroke of the
guillotine never ceased its beat. Sleep was, indeed, a boon, when the
wakeful ear and eye had nought but sounds and sights of horror before
them. What a blessing not to watch the street as it trembled before
the fatal car, groaning under its crowd of victims. To see them, with
drooped heads and hanging arms, swaying as the rude plank shook them,
not lifting an eye upon that cruel mob, whose ribald cries assailed
them, and who had words of welcome but for _him_ who followed on a low,
red-coloured cart, pale, stern, and still--the headsman. The thirsty
earth was so drunk with carnage that, in the words of one of the
Convention, it was said: 'We shall soon fear to drink the water of the
wells, lest it be mixed with the blood of our brothers!'

Out of this deep slumber, in which no measure of time was kept, a loud
and deafening shock aroused him. It was the force of the mob, who had
broken-in the prison-doors, and proclaimed liberty to the captives.
Robespierre had been guillotined that morning; the 'Terror' was over,
and all Paris, in a frenzy of delight, awoke from its terrible orgie of
blood, and dared to breathe with freedom. The burst of joy that broke
forth was like the wild cry of delight uttered by a reprieved criminal.

Few in that vast multitude had less sympathy with that joy than Gerald
Fitzgerald. Of the prisoners there was not one except himself who had
not eit