aused, and yielded to his persuasions; but at the barricade at the
Faubourg St. Antoine, while he was signing to the mob to give him a
moment to speak, a ball struck him, and followed by the weeping and
horror-struck insurgents, he was borne into the curate's house,
severely wounded, while the populace laid down their weapons, to sign a
declaration that they knew not who had fired the fatal shot.

'No, no, it was none of our people!' repeated the little nun. 'Not one
of them, poor lost creatures as too many are, would have committed the
act--so sacrilegious, so ungrateful! Ah! you must not believe them
wicked. It is misery that drove them to rise. Hold! I met a young
man--alas! I knew him well when he was a child--I said to him, 'Ah! my
son, you are on the bad train.' 'Bread, mother--it is bread we must
have,' he answered. 'Why, would you speak to one who has not eaten for
twenty-four hours?' I told him he knew the way to our kitchen. 'No,
mother,' he said, 'I shall not eat; I shall get myself killed.''

Many a lamentable detail of this description did she narrate, as she
busied herself with the wound; and Louis listened, as he had listened
to nothing else that day, and nearly emptied his travelling purse for
the sufferers. Isabel and Virginia waylaid her on the stairs to admire
and ask questions, but she firmly, though politely, put them aside,
unable to waste any time away from her children--her poor wounded!

On Monday forenoon tranquillity was restored, the rabble had been
crushed, and the organized force was triumphant. Still the state of
siege continued, and no one was allowed free egress or ingress, but the
Captain pronounced this all nonsense, and resolutely set out for a
walk, taking the passports with him, and promising Lady Conway to
arrange for her departure.

By-and-by he came in, subdued and affected by the procession which he
had encountered--the dying Archbishop borne home to his palace on a
litter, carried by workmen and soldiers, while the troops, who lined
the streets, paid him their military salutes, and the people crowded to
their doors and windows--one voice of weeping and mourning running
along Paris--as the good prelate lay before their eyes, pale,
suffering, peaceful, and ever and anon lifting his feeble hand for a
last blessing to the flock for whom he had devoted himself.

The Captain was so much impressed that, as he said, he could not get
over it, and stayed for some time talk