n, 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
neighbours. 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 Townhall, every three minutes: near by is the Convention
sitting,--vengeful 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 Mahlstrom 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 grey, white stockings. He strips off
the coat; stands disclosed in a sleeve-waistcoat of white flannel. The
Executioners approach to