rever chance
might direct it. He drew it out reeking with blood, and waved it
before the people. A hideous yell of applause rose from the multitude,
and again he plunged his saber into the carriage. The assassin then
passed to the next coach, and again enacted the same act of horrid
butchery upon the struggling priests crowded into the carriages, with
no shield and with no escape. Thus he went, from one to the other,
through the whole line of coaches, while the armed escort looked on
with derisive laughter, and shouts of fiendish exultation rose from
the phrensied multitude. The mounted troops slowly forced open a
passage for the carriages, and they moved along, marking their passage
by the streams of blood which dripped, from their dead and dying
inmates, upon the pavements. When they arrived at the prison, eight
dead bodies were dragged from the floor of the vehicles, and many of
those not dead were horridly mutilated and clotted with gore. The
wretched victims precipitated themselves with the utmost consternation
into the prison, as a retreat from the billows of rage surging and
roaring around them.

But the scene within was still more terrible than that without. In the
spacious hall opening into the court-yard of the prison there was a
table, around which sat twelve men. Their brawny limbs, and coarse and
brutal countenances, proclaimed them familiar with debauch and blood.
Their attire was that of the lowest class in society, with woolen caps
on their heads, shirt sleeves rolled up, unembarrassed by either vest
or coat, and butchers' aprons bound around them. At the head of the
table sat Maillard, at that time the idol of the blood-thirsty mob of
Paris. These men composed a self-constituted tribunal to award life or
instant death to those brought before them. First appeared one
hundred and fifty Swiss officers and soldiers who had been in the
employ of the king. They were brought _en masse_ before the tribunal.
"You have assassinated the people," said Maillard, "and they demand
vengeance." The door was open. The assassins in the court-yard, with
weapons reeking with blood, were howling for their prey. The soldiers
were driven into the yard, and they fell beneath the blows of
bayonets, sabers, and clubs, and their gory bodies were piled up, a
hideous mound, in the corners of the court. The priests, without
delay, met with the same fate. A moment sufficed for trial, and
verdict, and execution. Night came. Brandy and