ere are some Seven Prisons in
Paris, full of Aristocrats with conspiracies;--nay not even Bicetre and
Salpetriere shall escape, with their Forgers of Assignats: and there
are seventy times seven hundred Patriot hearts in a state of frenzy.
Scoundrel hearts also there are; as perfect, say, as the Earth
holds,--if such are needed. To whom, in this mood, law is as no-law; and
killing, by what name soever called, is but work to be done.

So sit these sudden Courts of Wild-Justice, with the Prison-Registers
before them; unwonted wild tumult howling all round: the Prisoners
in dread expectancy within. Swift: a name is called; bolts jingle, a
Prisoner is there. A few questions are put; swiftly this sudden Jury
decides: Royalist Plotter or not? Clearly not; in that case, Let the
Prisoner be enlarged With Vive la Nation. Probably yea; then still, Let
the Prisoner be enlarged, but without Vive la Nation; or else it may
run, Let the prisoner be conducted to La Force. At La Force again their
formula is, Let the Prisoner be conducted to the Abbaye.--"To La Force
then!" Volunteer bailiffs seize the doomed man; he is at the outer gate;
'enlarged,' or 'conducted,'--not into La Force, but into a howling sea;
forth, under an arch of wild sabres, axes and pikes; and sinks, hewn
asunder. And another sinks, and another; and there forms itself a piled
heap of corpses, and the kennels begin to run red. Fancy the yells of
these men, their faces of sweat and blood; the crueller shrieks of these
women, for there are women too; and a fellow-mortal hurled naked into it
all! Jourgniac de Saint Meard has seen battle, has seen an effervescent
Regiment du Roi in mutiny; but the bravest heart may quail at this. The
Swiss Prisoners, remnants of the Tenth of August, 'clasped each other
spasmodically,' and hung back; grey veterans crying: "Mercy Messieurs;
ah, mercy!" But there was no mercy. Suddenly, however, one of these men
steps forward. He had a blue frock coat; he seemed to be about thirty,
his stature was above common, his look noble and martial. "I go first,"
said he, "since it must be so: adieu!" Then dashing his hat sharply
behind him: "Which way?" cried he to the Brigands: "Shew it me, then."
They open the folding gate; he is announced to the multitude. He stands
a moment motionless; then plunges forth among the pikes, and dies of
a thousand wounds.' (Felemhesi, La Verite tout entiere (ut supra), p.
173.)

Man after man is cut down; the sabres