est in this moment: prophetic of what other Phantasmagories, and
loud-gibbering Spectral Realities, which, thou yet beholdest not, but
shalt! "Que voulez vous?" said de Launay, turning pale at the sight,
with an air of reproach, almost of menace. "Monsieur," said Thuriot,
rising into the moral-sublime, "What mean you? Consider if I could not
precipitate both of us from this height,"--say only a hundred feet,
exclusive of the walled ditch! Whereupon de Launay fell silent. Thuriot
shews himself from some pinnacle, to comfort the multitude becoming
suspicious, fremescent: then descends; departs with protest; with
warning addressed also to the Invalides,--on whom, however, it produces
but a mixed indistinct impression. The old heads are none of the
clearest; besides, it is said, de Launay has been profuse of beverages
(prodigua des buissons). They think, they will not fire,--if not fired
on, if they can help it; but must, on the whole, be ruled considerably
by circumstances.

Wo to thee, de Launay, in such an hour, if thou canst not, taking some
one firm decision, rule circumstances! Soft speeches will not serve;
hard grape-shot is questionable; but hovering between the two is
unquestionable. Ever wilder swells the tide of men; their infinite hum
waxing ever louder, into imprecations, perhaps into crackle of stray
musketry,--which latter, on walls nine feet thick, cannot do execution.
The Outer Drawbridge has been lowered for Thuriot; new deputation of
citizens (it is the third, and noisiest of all) penetrates that way
into the Outer Court: soft speeches producing no clearance of these, de
Launay gives fire; pulls up his Drawbridge. A slight sputter;--which has
kindled the too combustible chaos; made it a roaring fire-chaos! Bursts
forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood (for there were deaths
by that sputter of fire), into endless rolling explosion of musketry,
distraction, execration;--and overhead, from the Fortress, let one great
gun, with its grape-shot, go booming, to shew what we could do. The
Bastille is besieged!

On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies! Roar with
all your throats, of cartilage and metal, ye Sons of Liberty; stir
spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in you, soul, body or
spirit; for it is the hour! Smite, thou Louis Tournay, cartwright of
the Marais, old-soldier of the Regiment Dauphine; smite at that Outer
Drawbridge chain, though the fiery hail whistles round thee