n mind of overcoming difficulty or confronting danger, when even
for those of whom we know nothing we can feel, and feel warmly, when
they stand before us in such a light as this. Heroism and bravery appeal
to every nature; and bad must be the cause in which they are exerted,
before we can venture to think ill of those who possess them.

The lamps were beginning to be lighted as we reached the Barriere, and
halted to permit the officer of the party to make his report of who
we were. The formality soon finished, we defiled along the Boulevard,
followed by a crowd, that, increasing each moment, at last occupied
the entire road, and made our progress slow and difficult. While the
curiosity of the people to catch sight of the prisoners demanded all
the vigilance of the guards to prevent it, a sad and most appalling
stillness pervaded the whole multitude, and I could hear a murmur as
they went that it was Generals Moreau and Pichegru who were taken.

At length we halted, and I could see that the foremost charrette was
entering a low archway, over which a massive portcullis hung. The gloomy
shadow of a dark, vast mass, that rose against the inky sky, lowered
above the wall, and somehow seemed to me as if well known.

"This is the Temple?" said I to the gendarme on my right.

A nod was the reply, and a half-expressive look that seemed to say, "In
that word you have said your destiny."

About two years previous to the time I now speak of, I remember one
evening, when returning from a solitary walk along the Boulevard,
stopping in front of a tall and weather-beaten tower, the walls black
with age, and pierced here and there with narrow windows, across which
strong iron stanchions ran transversely. A gloomy fosse, crossed by a
narrow drawbridge, surrounded the external wall of this dreary building,
which needed no superstition to invest it with a character of crime
and misfortune. This was the Temple,--the ancient castle of the knights
whose cruelties were written in the dark obbliettes and the noisome
dungeons of that dread abode. A terrace ran along the tower on three
sides. There, for hours long, walked in sadness and in sorrow the last
of France's kings,--Louis the Sixteenth,--his children at his side. In
that dark turret the Dauphin suffered death. At the low casement yonder,
Madame Royale sat hour by hour, the stone on which she leaned wet
with her tears. The place was one of gloomy and sinister repute: the
neighborhood