struggling to speak,
but President Thuriot is jingling the bell against him, but the Hall is
sounding against him like an Aeolus-Hall: and Robespierre is mounting
the Tribune-steps and descending again; going and coming, like to choke
with rage, terror, desperation:--and mutiny is the order of the day!
(Moniteur, Nos. 311, 312; Debats, iv. 421-42; Deux Amis, xii. 390-411.)

O President Thuriot, thou that wert Elector Thuriot, and from the
Bastille battlements sawest Saint-Antoine rising like the Ocean-tide,
and hast seen much since, sawest thou ever the like of this? Jingle of
bell, which thou jinglest against Robespierre, is hardly audible amid
the Bedlam-storm; and men rage for life. "President of Assassins,"
shrieks Robespierre, "I demand speech of thee for the last time!" It
cannot be had. "To you, O virtuous men of the Plain," cries he, finding
audience one moment, "I appeal to you!" The virtuous men of the Plain
sit silent as stones. And Thuriot's bell jingles, and the Hall sounds
like Aeolus's Hall. Robespierre's frothing lips are grown 'blue;' his
tongue dry, cleaving to the roof of his mouth. "The blood of Danton
chokes him," cry they. "Accusation! Decree of Accusation!" Thuriot
swiftly puts that question. Accusation passes; the incorruptible
Maximilien is decreed Accused.

"I demand to share my Brother's fate, as I have striven to share his
virtues," cries Augustin, the Younger Robespierre: Augustin also is
decreed. And Couthon, and Saint-Just, and Lebas, they are all decreed;
and packed forth,--not without difficulty, the Ushers almost
trembling to obey. Triumvirat and Company are packed forth, into Salut
Committee-room; their tongue cleaving to the roof of their mouth. You
have but to summon the Municipality; to cashier Commandant Henriot, and
launch Arrest at him; to regular formalities; hand Tinville his victims.
It is noon: the Aeolus-Hall has delivered itself; blows now victorious,
harmonious, as one irresistible wind.

And so the work is finished? One thinks so; and yet it is not so. Alas,
there is yet but the first-act finished; three or four other acts still
to come; and an uncertain catastrophe! A huge City holds in it so many
confusions: seven hundred thousand human heads; not one of which
knows what its neighbour is doing, nay not what itself is doing.--See,
accordingly, about three in the afternoon, Commandant Henriot, how
instead of sitting cashiered, arrested, he gallops along the Quais,
fol