The Reader, who looks earnestly through this dim Phantasmagory of the Pit, will discern few fixed certain objects; and yet still a few.  He will observe, in this Abbaye Prison, the sudden massacre of the Priests being once over, a strange Court of Justice, or call it Court of Revenge and Wild-Justice, swiftly fashion itself, and take seat round a table, with the Prison-Registers spread before it;—­Stanislas Maillard, Bastille-hero, famed Leader of the Menads, presiding.  O Stanislas, one hoped to meet thee elsewhere than here; thou shifty Riding-Usher, with an inkling of Law!  This work also thou hadst to do; and then—­to depart for ever from our eyes.  At La Force, at the Chatelet, the Conciergerie, the like Court forms itself, with the like accompaniments:  the thing that one man does other men can do.  There are some Seven Prisons in Paris, full of Aristocrats with conspiracies;—­nay not even Bicetre and Salpetriere shall escape, with their Forgers of Assignats:  and there are seventy times seven hundred Patriot hearts in a state of frenzy.  Scoundrel hearts also there are; as perfect, say, as the Earth holds,—­if such are needed.  To whom, in this mood, law is as no-law; and killing, by what name soever called, is but work to be done.

So sit these sudden Courts of Wild-Justice, with the Prison-Registers before them; unwonted wild tumult howling all round:  the Prisoners in dread expectancy within.  Swift:  a name is called; bolts jingle, a Prisoner is there.  A few questions are put; swiftly this sudden Jury decides:  Royalist Plotter or not?  Clearly not; in that case, Let the Prisoner be enlarged With Vive la Nation.  Probably yea; then still, Let the Prisoner be enlarged, but without Vive la Nation; or else it may run, Let the prisoner be conducted to La Force.  At La Force again their formula is, Let the Prisoner be conducted to the Abbaye.—­“To La Force then!” Volunteer bailiffs seize the doomed man; he is at the outer gate; ‘enlarged,’ or ’conducted,’—­not into La Force, but into a howling sea; forth, under an arch of wild sabres, axes and pikes; and sinks, hewn asunder.  And another sinks, and another; and there forms itself a piled heap of corpses, and the kennels begin to run red.  Fancy the yells of these men, their faces of sweat and blood; the crueller shrieks of these women, for there are women too; and a fellow-mortal hurled naked into it all!  Jourgniac de Saint Meard has seen battle, has seen an effervescent Regiment du Roi in mutiny; but the bravest heart may quail at this.  The Swiss Prisoners, remnants of the Tenth of August, ’clasped each other spasmodically,’ and hung back; grey veterans crying:  “Mercy Messieurs; ah, mercy!” But there was no mercy.  Suddenly, however, one of these men steps forward.  He had a blue frock coat; he seemed to be about thirty, his stature was above common, his look noble and martial.  “I go first,” said he, “since it must be so:  adieu!” Then dashing his hat sharply behind him:  “Which way?” cried he to the Brigands:  “Shew it me, then.”  They open the folding gate; he is announced to the multitude.  He stands a moment motionless; then plunges forth among the pikes, and dies of a thousand wounds.’ (Felemhesi, La Verite tout entiere (ut supra), p. 173.)