n a cradle like the rest of us. Ye
children of men!--A sister of his, they say, lives still to this day in
Paris.

As for Charlotte Corday her work is accomplished; the recompense of it
is near and sure. The chere amie, and neighbours of the house, flying
at her, she 'overturns some movables,' entrenches herself till the
gendarmes arrive; then quietly surrenders; goes quietly to the Abbaye
Prison: she alone quiet, all Paris sounding in wonder, in rage or
admiration, round her. Duperret is put in arrest, on account of her; his
Papers sealed,--which may lead to consequences. Fauchet, in like manner;
though Fauchet had not so much as heard of her. Charlotte, confronted
with these two Deputies, praises the grave firmness of Duperret,
censures the dejection of Fauchet.

On Wednesday morning, the thronged Palais de Justice and Revolutionary
Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm: she dates it 'fourth day
of the Preparation of Peace.' A strange murmur ran through the Hall, at
sight of her; you could not say of what character. (Proces de Charlotte
Corday, &c. Hist. Parl. xxviii. 311-338.) Tinville has his indictments
and tape-papers the cutler of the Palais Royal will testify that he
sold her the sheath-knife; "all these details are needless," interrupted
Charlotte; "it is I that killed Marat." By whose instigation?--"By no
one's." What tempted you, then? His crimes. "I killed one man," added
she, raising her voice extremely (extremement), as they went on with
their questions, "I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; a villain
to save innocents; a savage wild-beast to give repose to my country. I
was a Republican before the Revolution; I never wanted energy." There
is therefore nothing to be said. The public gazes astonished: the hasty
limners sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving; the men of law
proceed with their formalities. The doom is Death as a murderess. To
her Advocate she gives thanks; in gentle phrase, in high-flown classical
spirit. To the Priest they send her she gives thanks; but needs not any
shriving, or ghostly or other aid from him.

On this same evening, therefore, about half-past seven o'clock, from
the gate of the Conciergerie, to a City all on tiptoe, the fatal Cart
issues: seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in red smock of
Murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life; journeying towards
death,--alone amid the world. Many take off their hats, saluting
reverently; for wh