nnot judge us till
our work is done. We have recalled L'Etre Supreme; we must now remodel
this corrupted world. All shall be love and brotherhood; and--ho! Simon!
Simon!--hold! Your pencil, St. Just!" And Robespierre wrote hastily.
"This to Citizen President Dumas. Go with it quick, Simon. These eighty
heads must fall TO-MORROW,--TO-MORROW, Simon. Dumas will advance their
trial a day. I will write to Fouquier-Tinville, the public accuser.
We meet at the Jacobins to-night, Simon; there we will denounce the
Convention itself; there we will rally round us the last friends of
liberty and France."

A shout was heard in the distance behind, "Vive la republique!"

The tyrant's eye shot a vindictive gleam. "The republic!--faugh! We did
not destroy the throne of a thousand years for that canaille!"

THE TRIAL, THE EXECUTION, OF THE VICTIMS IS ADVANCED A DAY! By the
aid of the mysterious intelligence that had guided and animated him
hitherto, Zanoni learned that his arts had been in vain. He knew that
Viola was safe, if she could but survive an hour the life of the
tyrant. He knew that Robespierre's hours were numbered; that the 10th of
Thermidor, on which he had originally designed the execution of his
last victims, would see himself at the scaffold. Zanoni had toiled, had
schemed for the fall of the Butcher and his reign. To what end? A single
word from the tyrant had baffled the result of all. The execution
of Viola is advanced a day. Vain seer, who wouldst make thyself the
instrument of the Eternal, the very dangers that now beset the tyrant
but expedite the doom of his victims! To-morrow, eighty heads, and
hers whose pillow has been thy heart! To-morrow! and Maximilien is safe
to-night!

CHAPTER 7.XIII.

Erde mag zuruck in Erde stauben;
Fliegt der Geist doch aus dem morschen Haus.
Seine Asche mag der Sturmwind treiben,
Sein Leben dauert ewig aus!
Elegie.

(Earth may crumble back into earth; the Spirit will still escape
from its frail tenement. The wind of the storm may scatter his
ashes; his being endures forever.)

To-morrow!--and it is already twilight. One after one, the gentle stars
come smiling through the heaven. The Seine, in its slow waters, yet
trembles with the last kiss of the rosy day; and still in the blue sky
gleams the spire of Notre Dame; and still in the blue sky looms the
guillotine by the Barriere du Trone. Turn to that time-worn building,
once the ch