Balked of their expected prey, the rioters grew more furious than ever; in useless wrath they kept firing against the walls of the palace, and shouting out a demand for the queen to show herself.  She, with her children, was still in the king’s apartment, where the princesses, the ministers, and a few courtiers were also assembled.  Necker, in an agony of terror and distress, sat with his face buried in his hands, unable to offer any advice; La Fayette, who had just arrived, dwelt upon the dangers which he had run, though no one else knew what they were, and assured the king of the power which he still possessed to allay the tumult, if the reasonable demands of the people (as he called them) were granted.  Marie Antoinette alone was undaunted and calm; or, at least, if in the depths of her woman’s heart she felt terror at the sanguinary and obscene threats of her ruffianly enemies, she scorned to show it.  When the firing began, M. de Luzerne, one of the ministers, had quietly placed himself between her and the window; but, while she thanked him for his devotion, she begged him to retire, saying, with her habitually gracious courtesy, that it was her place to be there,[6] not his, since the king could not afford to have so faithful a servant endangered.  And now, holding her little son and daughter, one in each hand, she stepped out on the balcony, to confront those who were shouting for her blood.  “No children!” was their cry.  She led the dauphin and his sister back into the room, and, returning to the balcony, stood before them alone, with her hands crossed and her eyes looking up to heaven, as one who expected instant death, with a firmness as far removed from defiance as from supplication.  Even those ruthless miscreants were awed by her magnanimous fearlessness; not a shot was fired; for a moment it seemed as if her enemies had become her partisans.  Loud shouts of “Bravo!” and “Long live the queen!” were heard on all sides; and one ruffian, who raised his gun to take aim at her, had his weapon beaten down by those who stood near him, and ran some risk of being himself sacrificed to their indignation.  But this impulse of respect, like other impulses of such a people, was short-lived, and presently the multitude began to raise a shout, which expressed the original purpose which had led the majority to march upon Versailles.  “To Paris!” was the cry, and again La Fayette volunteered his advice, urging the king to comply with the request.  By this time Louis had learned the value of the marquis’s loyalty.  But he had no alternative.  It was evident that the rioters had the power of compelling compliance with their demand.  And accordingly he authorized the marquis to promise that he would remove his family to Paris, and a few minutes afterward he himself went out on the balcony with the queen, and himself announced his intention, with the view of giving his act a greater appearance of being voluntarily resolved upon.