ngeful 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 Savior, 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 be murdered (for Santerre and his Armed
Ranks will strike, if they do not), seize the hapless Louis: six of
them desperate, him singly desperate, struggling there; and bind him
to their plank. Abbe Edgeworth, stooping, bespeaks him: "Son of Saint
Louis, ascend to Heaven." The Axe clanks down; a King's Life is shorn
away. It is Monday, the 21st of January, 1793. He was aged
Thirty-eight years four months and twenty-eight days.

Executioner Samson shows the Head: fierce shout of _Vive la
Republique_ rises, and swells; caps raised on bayonets, hats waving:
students of the College of Four Nations take it up, on the far Quais;
fling it over Paris. D'Orleans drives off in his cabriolet: the
Town-hall Councillors rub their hands, saying, "It is done, It is
done." There is dipping of handkerchiefs, of pike-points in the blood.
Headsman Samson, though he afterward denied it, sells locks of the
hair: fractions of the puce coat are long after worn in rings. And so,
in some half-hour it is done; and the multitude has all departed.
Pastry