in which to make it.  The dignity of the answer seemed to imply a contempt for the threateners, and the mob grew more uproarious.  “Fear not, sire,” said one of Acloque’s grenadiers, “we are around you.”  The king took the man’s hand and placed it on his heart, which was beating more calmly than that of the soldier himself.  “Judge yourself,” said he, “if I fear.”  Legendre, the butcher, raised his pike as if to strike him, while he reproached him as a traitor and the enemy of his country.  “I am not, and never have been aught but the sincerest friend of my people,” was the gentle but fearless answer.  “If it be so, put on this red cap,” and the butcher thrust one into his hand on the end of his pike, prepared, as Louis believed, to plunge the weapon itself into his breast if he refused.  The king put it on, and so little regarded it that he forgot to remove it again, as he afterward repented that he had not done, thinking that his conduct in allowing it to remain on his head bore too strong a resemblance to fear or to an unworthy compromise of his dignity.

But still the uproar increased, and above it rose loud cries for the queen, till at last she also came forward.  As yet, from the motives that have already been mentioned, she had consented to remain out of sight; but each explosion of the mob increased her unwillingness to keep back.  It was, she felt, her duty to be always at the king’s side; if need be, to die with him; to stand aloof was infamy; and at last, as the demands for her appearance increased, even those around her confessed that it might be safer for her to show herself.  The door was thrown open, and, leading forth her children, from whom she refused to part, and accompanied by Madame de Tourzel, Madame de Lamballe, and others of her ladies, the most timid of whom seemed as if inspired by her example, Marie Antoinette advanced and took her place by the side of her husband, and, with head erect and color heightened by the sight of her enemies, faced them disdainfully.  As lions in their utmost rage have recoiled before a man who has looked them steadily in the face, so did even those miscreants quail before their pure and high-minded queen.  At first it seemed as if her bitterest enemies were to be found among her own sex.  The men were for a moment silenced; but a young girl, whose appearance was not that of the lowest class, came forward and abused her in coarse and furious language, especially reviling her as “the Austrian.”  The queen, astonished at finding such animosity in one apparently tender and gentle, condescended to expostulate with her.  “Why do you hate me?  I have never injured you.”  “You have not injured me, but it is you who cause the misery of the nation.”  “Poor child,” replied Marie Antoinette, “they have deceived you.  I am the wife of your king, the mother of your dauphin, who will be your king.  I am a Frenchwoman in every feeling of my heart.  I shall never again see Austria.  I can only be happy or unhappy in France, and I was happy when you