s neighbors. All windows are down, none seen looking through them. All
shops are shut. No wheel-carriage rolls, this morning, in these streets
but one only. Eighty thousand armed men stand ranked, like armed statues
of men; cannons bristle, cannoneers with match burning, but no word or
movement: it is as a city enchanted into silence and stone: one carriage
with its escort, slowly rumbling, is the only sound. Louis reads, in his
Book of Devotion, the Prayers of the Dying: clatter of this death-march
falls sharp on the ear, in the great silence; but the thought would fain
struggle heavenward, and forget the Earth.

As the clocks strike ten, behold the Place de la Revolution, once Place
de Louis Quinze: the Guillotine, mounted near the old Pedestal where
once stood the Statue of that Louis! Far round, all bristles with
cannons and armed men: spectators crowding in the rear; D'Orleans
Egalite there in cabriolet. Swift messengers, _hoquetons_, speed to the
Town-hall every three minutes: near by is the Convention
sitting--vengeful for Lepelletier. Heedless of all, Louis reads his
Prayers of the Dying; not till five minutes yet has he finished; then
the Carriage opens. What temper he is in? Ten different witnesses will
give ten different accounts of it. He is in the collision of all
tempers; arrived now at the black Maelstrom and descent of Death: in
sorrow, in indignation, in resignation struggling to be resigned. "Take
care of M. Edgeworth," he straitly charges the Lieutenant who is sitting
with them: then they two descend.

The drums are beating: "_Taisez-vous!_" ("Silence!") he cries "in a
terrible voice" (_d'une voix terrible_). He mounts the scaffold, not
without delay; he is in _puce_ coat, breeches of gray, white stockings.
He strips off the coat; stands disclosed in a sleeve-waistcoat of white
flannel. The Executioners approach to bind him: he spurns, resists; Abbe
Edgeworth has to remind him how the Saviour, in whom men trust,
submitted to be bound. His hands are tied, his head bare; the fatal
moment is come. He advances to the edge of the Scaffold, "his face very
red," and says: "Frenchmen, I die innocent: it is from the Scaffold and
near appearing before God that I tell you so. I pardon my enemies; I
desire that France----" A General on horseback, Santerre or another,
prances out, with uplifted hand: "_Tambours!_" The drums drown the
voice. "Executioners, do your duty!" The Executioners, desperate lest
themselves