Worse things still are in store.  Famine is in Lyons, and ruin, and fire.  Desperate are the sallies of the besieged; brave Precy, their National Colonel and Commandant, doing what is in man:  desperate but ineffectual.  Provisions cut off; nothing entering our city but shot and shells!  The Arsenal has roared aloft; the very Hospital will be battered down, and the sick buried alive.  A Black Flag hung on this latter noble Edifice, appealing to the pity of the beseigers; for though maddened, were they not still our brethren?  In their blind wrath, they took it for a flag of defiance, and aimed thitherward the more.  Bad is growing ever worse here:  and how will the worse stop, till it have grown worst of all?  Commissioner Dubois will listen to no pleading, to no speech, save this only, ‘We surrender at discretion.’  Lyons contains in it subdued Jacobins; dominant Girondins; secret Royalists.  And now, mere deaf madness and cannon-shot enveloping them, will not the desperate Municipality fly, at last, into the arms of Royalism itself?  Majesty of Sardinia was to bring help, but it failed.  Emigrant Autichamp, in name of the Two Pretender Royal Highnesses, is coming through Switzerland with help; coming, not yet come:  Precy hoists the Fleur-de-lys!

At sight of which, all true Girondins sorrowfully fling down their arms:—­Let our Tricolor brethren storm us, then, and slay us in their wrath:  with you we conquer not.  The famishing women and children are sent forth:  deaf Dubois sends them back;—­rains in mere fire and madness.  Our ‘redouts of cotton-bags’ are taken, retaken; Precy under his Fleur-de-lys is valiant as Despair.  What will become of Lyons?  It is a siege of seventy days. (Deux Amis, xi. 80-143.)

Or see, in these same weeks, far in the Western waters:  breasting through the Bay of Biscay, a greasy dingy little Merchantship, with Scotch skipper; under hatches whereof sit, disconsolate,—­the last forlorn nucleus of Girondism, the Deputies from Quimper!  Several have dissipated themselves, whithersoever they could.  Poor Riouffe fell into the talons of Revolutionary Committee, and Paris Prison.  The rest sit here under hatches; reverend Petion with his grey hair, angry Buzot, suspicious Louvet, brave young Barbaroux, and others.  They have escaped from Quimper, in this sad craft; are now tacking and struggling; in danger from the waves, in danger from the English, in still worse danger from the French;—­banished by Heaven and Earth to the greasy belly of this Scotch skipper’s Merchant-vessel, unfruitful Atlantic raving round.  They are for Bourdeaux, if peradventure hope yet linger there.  Enter not Bourdeaux, O Friends!  Bloody Convention Representatives, Tallien and such like, with their Edicts, with their Guillotine, have arrived there; Respectability is driven under ground; Jacobinism lords it on high.  From that Reole landingplace, or Beak of Ambes, as it were, Pale Death, waving his Revolutionary Sword of sharpness, waves you elsewhither!