ard. Frederick, caught between two thick masses of people, did
not move an inch, all the time fascinated and exceedingly amused by the
scene around him. The wounded who sank to the ground, the dead lying at
his feet, did not seem like persons really wounded or really dead. The
impression left on his mind was that he was looking on at a show.

In the midst of the surging throng, above the sea of heads, could be
seen an old man in a black coat, mounted on a white horse with a velvet
saddle. He held in one hand a green bough, in the other a paper, and he
kept shaking them persistently; but at length, giving up all hope of
obtaining a hearing, he withdrew from the scene.

The soldiers of the Line had gone, and only the municipal troops
remained to defend the guard-house. A wave of dauntless spirits dashed
up the steps; they were flung down; others came on to replace them, and
the gate resounded under blows from iron bars. The municipal guards did
not give way. But a wagon, stuffed full of hay, and burning like a
gigantic torch, was dragged against the walls. Faggots were speedily
brought, then straw, and a barrel of spirits of wine. The fire mounted
up to the stones along the wall; the building began to send forth smoke
on all sides like the crater of a volcano; and at its summit, between
the balustrades of the terrace, huge flames escaped with a harsh noise.
The first story of the Palais-Royal was occupied by National Guards.
Shots were fired through every window in the square; the bullets
whizzed, the water of the fountain, which had burst, was mingled with
the blood, forming little pools on the ground. People slipped in the mud
over clothes, shakos, and weapons. Frederick felt something soft under
his foot. It was the hand of a sergeant in a grey great-coat, lying on
his face in the stream that ran along the street. Fresh bands of people
were continually coming up, pushing on the combatants at the
guard-house. The firing became quicker. The wine-shops were open; people
went into them from time to time to smoke a pipe and drink a glass of
beer, and then came back again to fight. A lost dog began to howl. This
made the people laugh.

Frederick was shaken by the impact of a man falling on his shoulder with
a bullet through his back and the death-rattle in his throat. At this
shot, perhaps directed against himself, he felt himself stirred up to
rage; and he was plunging forward when a National Guard stopped him.

"'Tis us