Man after man is cut down; the sabres need sharpening, the killers refresh themselves from wine jugs.  Onward and onward goes the butchery; the loud yells wearying down into bass growls.  A sombre-faced, shifting multitude looks on; in dull approval, or dull disapproval; in dull recognition that it is Necessity.  ‘An Anglais in drab greatcoat’ was seen, or seemed to be seen, serving liquor from his own dram-bottle;—­for what purpose, ‘if not set on by Pitt,’ Satan and himself know best!  Witty Dr. Moore grew sick on approaching, and turned into another street. (Moore’s Journal, i. 185-195.)—­Quick enough goes this Jury-Court; and rigorous.  The brave are not spared, nor the beautiful, nor the weak.  Old M. de Montmorin, the Minister’s Brother, was acquitted by the Tribunal of the Seventeenth; and conducted back, elbowed by howling galleries; but is not acquitted here.  Princess de Lamballe has lain down on bed:  “Madame, you are to be removed to the Abbaye.”  “I do not wish to remove; I am well enough here.”  There is a need-be for removing.  She will arrange her dress a little, then; rude voices answer, “You have not far to go.”  She too is led to the hell-gate; a manifest Queen’s-Friend.  She shivers back, at the sight of bloody sabres; but there is no return:  Onwards!  That fair hindhead is cleft with the axe; the neck is severed.  That fair body is cut in fragments; with indignities, and obscene horrors of moustachio grands-levres, which human nature would fain find incredible,—­which shall be read in the original language only.  She was beautiful, she was good, she had known no happiness.  Young hearts, generation after generation, will think with themselves:  O worthy of worship, thou king-descended, god-descended and poor sister-woman! why was not I there; and some Sword Balmung, or Thor’s Hammer in my hand?  Her head is fixed on a pike; paraded under the windows of the Temple; that a still more hated, a Marie-Antoinette, may see.  One Municipal, in the Temple with the Royal Prisoners at the moment, said, “Look out.”  Another eagerly whispered, “Do not look.”  The circuit of the Temple is guarded, in these hours, by a long stretched tricolor riband:  terror enters, and the clangour of infinite tumult:  hitherto not regicide, though that too may come.

But it is more edifying to note what thrillings of affection, what fragments of wild virtues turn up, in this shaking asunder of man’s existence, for of these too there is a proportion.  Note old Marquis Cazotte:  he is doomed to die; but his young Daughter clasps him in her arms, with an inspiration of eloquence, with a love which is stronger than very death; the heart of the killers themselves is touched by it; the old man is spared.  Yet he was guilty, if plotting for his King is guilt:  in ten days more, a Court of Law condemned him, and he had to die elsewhere; bequeathing his Daughter a lock of his old grey hair.  Or note old M. de Sombreuil, who also had a Daughter:—­My Father is not an Aristocrat;