instigation?"

"By no one's."

"What tempted you, then?"

"His crimes!"

"I killed one man," added she, raising her voice extremely
(_extremement_), as they went on with their questions, "I killed one man
to save a hundred thousand; a villain to save innocents; a savage wild
beast to give repose to my country. I was a Republican before the
Revolution; I never wanted energy."

There is therefore nothing to be said. The public gazes astonished: the
hasty limners sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving: the men
of law proceed with their formalities. The doom is Death as a murderess.
To her Advocate she gives thanks; in gentle phrase, in high-flown
classical spirit. To the Priest they send her she gives thanks; but
needs not any shriving, any ghostly or other aid from him.

On this same evening, therefore, about half past seven o'clock, from the
gate of the Conciergerie, to a City all on tip-toe, the fatal Cart
issues; seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in red smock of
Murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life; journeying toward
death--alone amid the World. Many take off their hats, saluting
reverently; for what heart but must be touched? Others growl and howl.
Adam Lux, of Mainz, declares that she is greater than Brutus; that it
were beautiful to die with her: the head of this young man seems turned.
At the Place de la Revolution, the countenance of Charlotte wears the
same still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet; she
resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of explanation, she
submits with cheerful apology. As the last act, all being now ready,
they take the neckerchief from her neck; a blush of maidenly shame
overspreads that fair face and neck; the cheeks were still tinged with
it when the executioner lifted the severed head, to show it to the
people. "It is most true," says Forster, "that he struck the cheek
insultingly; for I saw it with my eyes: the Police imprisoned him for
it."

But during these same hours, another guillotine is at work on another;
Charlotte, for the Girondins, dies at Paris to-day; Chalier, by the
Girondins, dies at Lyons to-morrow.

From rumbling of cannon along the streets of that City, it has come to
firing of them, to rabid fighting: Nievre Chol and the Girondins
triumph; behind whom there is, as everywhere, a Royalist Faction waiting
to strike in. Trouble enough at Lyons; and the dominant party carrying
it with a high hand! For, ind