irresistible; they
declared that if the Body-guard would assume the tricolor, they would
stand by them as brothers. And, by a reaction not uncommon at such times
of excitement, the two regiments became reconciled in a moment. As no
tricolor cockades could be procured, they exchanged shakos, and, in many
cases, arms. And presently, when the Coup-tetes, after mutilating the
bodies of two of the Body-guard who had been killed on the previous
evening, were preparing to murder two or three more who had fallen into
their hands, the National Guard dashed to their rescue, shouting out, with
a curious identification of their force with the old French army, that
"they would save the Body-guard who saved them at Fontenoy," and brought
them off unhurt.

Balked of their expected prey, the rioters grew more furious than ever; in
useless wrath they kept firing against the walls of the palace, and
shouting out a demand for the queen to show herself. She, with her
children, was still in the king's apartment, where the princesses, the
ministers, and a few courtiers were also assembled. Necker, in an agony of
terror and distress, sat with his face buried in his hands, unable to
offer any advice; La Fayette, who had just arrived, dwelt upon the dangers
which he had run, though no one else knew what they were, and assured the
king of the power which he still possessed to allay the tumult, if the
reasonable demands of the people (as he called them) were granted. Marie
Antoinette alone was undaunted and calm; or, at least, if in the depths of
her woman's heart she felt terror at the sanguinary and obscene threats of
her ruffianly enemies, she scorned to show it. When the firing began, M.
de Luzerne, one of the ministers, had quietly placed himself between her
and the window; but, while she thanked him for his devotion, she begged
him to retire, saying, with her habitually gracious courtesy, that it was
her place to be there,[6] not his, since the king could not afford to have
so faithful a servant endangered. And now, holding her little son and
daughter, one in each hand, she stepped out on the balcony, to confront
those who were shouting for her blood. "No children!" was their cry. She
led the dauphin and his sister back into the room, and, returning to the
balcony, stood before them alone, with her hands crossed and her eyes
looking up to heaven, as one who expected instant death, with a firmness
as far removed from defiance as from supplic