Our unfortunate postilion falling with fatigue on his horses’ neck, attempted to propose going to an inn, and renewing our search in the morning; but the captain had made up his mind for the night, and, drawing a pistol from his breast, exhibited this significant sign pointed at his head.  The horses, as tired as their driver, were lashed on.  I had for some time been considering, as we passed through the deserted streets, whether it was altogether consistent with the feelings of my country, to suffer myself to be dragged round the capital at the mercy of this lover of lucre; but an apathy had come over my whole frame, which made me contemptuous of life.  The sight of his pistol rather excited me to make the attempt, from the very insolence of his carrying it.  But we still rolled on.  At length, in one of the streets, which seemed darker and more miserable than all the rest, we were brought to a full stop by the march of a strong body of the National Guard, which halted in front of an enormous old building, furnished with battlement and bartizan. “Le Temple!” exclaimed my companion, with almost a shriek of exultation.  I glanced upward, and saw a light with the pale glimmer which, in my boyish days, I had heard always attributed to spectres passing along the dim casements of a gallery.  I cannot express how deeply this image sank upon me.  I saw there only a huge tomb—­the tomb of living royalty, of a line of monarchs, of all the feelings that still bound the heart of man to the cause of France.  All now spectral.  But, whatever might be the work of my imagination, there was terrible truth; enough before me to depress, and sting, and wring the mind.  Within a step of the spot where I sat, were the noblest and the most unhappy beings in existence—­the whole family of the throne caught in the snare of treason.  Father, mother, sister, children!  Not one rescued, not one safe, to relieve the wretchedness of their ruin by the hope that there was an individual of their circle beyond their prison bars—­all consigned to the grave together—­all alike conscious that every day which sent its light through their melancholy casements, only brought them nearer to a death of misery!  But I must say no more of this.  My heart withered within me as I looked at the towers of the Temple.  It almost withers within me, at this moment, when I think of them.  They are leveled long since; but while I write I see them before me again, a sepulchre; I see the mustering of that crowd of more than savages before the grim gate; and I see the pale glimmer of that floating lamp, which was then, perhaps, lighting the steps of Marie Antoinette to her solitary cell.