tch, and kept trying it on his
finger; it was his wedding-ring, which he is now to return to the
Queen as a mute farewell. At half-past six, he took the Sacrament; and
continued in devotion, and conference with Abbe Edgeworth. He will not
see his Family: it were too hard to bear.

At eight, the Municipals enter: the King gives them his Will, and
messages and effects; which they at first brutally refuse to take
charge of; he gives them a roll of gold pieces, 125 louis; these are
to be returned to Malesherbes, who had lent them. At nine, Santerre
says the hour is come. The King begs yet to retire for three minutes.
At the end of three minutes, Santerre again says the hour is come.
"Stamping on the ground with his right foot, Louis answers:
'_Partons_' (Let us go)."--How the rolling of those drums comes in,
through the Temple bastions and bulwarks, on the heart of a queenly
wife; soon to be a widow! He is gone, then, and has not seen us? A
Queen weeps bitterly; a King's Sister and Children. Over all these
Four does Death also hover: all shall perish miserably save one; she,
as Duchesse d'Angouleme, will live,--not happily.

At the Temple gate were some faint cries, perhaps from voices of
pitiful women: "_Grace! Grace!_" Through the rest of the streets there
is silence as of the grave. No man not armed is allowed to be there:
the armed, did any even pity, dare not express it, each man overawed
by all his 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,--ve