athered
around the little Dauphin, of whose brilliant mind they had heard so
much, and began to question him eagerly on all kinds of subjects,
especially about the boundaries of France, and its division into
departments and districts, and every question he answered quickly.
After each answer he glanced up at his mother inquiringly, and when her
face showed that he had answered correctly, his face beamed with
pleasure, and he enjoyed seeing the astonishment on those faces
crowding around him. One of those present asked:

"Do you sing, too, Prince?"

The Dauphin glanced again at the queen.

"Mamma," he asked, "shall I sing the prayer I sang this morning?"

Marie Antoinette nodded assent and the Dauphin knelt beside her, and
folding his hands and looking up with a sweet look of reverence in his
blue eyes, sang in a clear voice:

"Oh heaven, accept the prayer
I offer here,
Unto his subjects spare
My father dear."

There was absolute silence in the room, while those faces, before so
hard and stern, softened. Then with a single glance at the lovely boy,
who was still kneeling, with a look on his face as if in a happy dream,
one by one, those revolutionists silently left the room.

But even the prayer and the faith of the Dauphin could not longer save
the royal family from their fate.

The people, inflamed to fury by every desire of which the
revolutionists could make use, now demanded the dethronement of the
King, and the giving of the crown to the Dauphin, in whose name, as he
was not yet of age, they intended to govern by means of a committee
chosen by themselves. To this the King naturally would not give his
consent, and amid scenes and sounds terrible beyond all description,
the royal family were declared prisoners of the people, and told that
they were to thereafter live in the Temple, which was now the royal
prison. As the Tuileries had already been pillaged by the mob, the
royal family found themselves without food or clothing, except what
they wore. The Dauphin was entirely destitute, but fortunately the
Duchess of Sutherland had a small son the age of the Dauphin, and she
sent the young prince what he needed in the way of clothing for their
departure. On August 13, 1792, the sad procession of royalty left the
Tuileries in the late afternoon and were escorted by a great mob of
frenzied men and women who acted more like wild beasts than like human
beings. At night-fall the carriage r