Manuel, however, who knew not of this cross arrangement, was better informed than its projector.

He was aware it would be impossible for Her Highness to escape from appearing before the tribunal.  He had already removed her companions.  The Princesse de Tarente, the Marquise de Tourzel, her daughter, and others, were in safety.  But when, true to his promise, he went to the Princesse de Lamballe, she would not be prevailed upon to quit her cell.  There was no time for parley.  The letter prevailed, and her fate was inevitable.

The massacre had begun at daybreak.  The fiends had been some hours busy in the work of death.  The piercing shrieks of the dying victims brought the Princess and her remaining companion upon their knees, in fervent prayer for the souls of the departed.  The messengers of the tribunal now appeared.  The Princess was compelled to attend the summons.  She went, accompanied by her faithful female attendant.

A glance at the seas of blood, of which she caught a glimpse upon her way to the Court, had nearly shocked her even to sudden death.  Would it had!  She staggered, but was sustained by her companion.  Her courage triumphed.  She appeared before the gore-stained tribunes.

After some questions of mere form, Her Highness was commanded to swear to be faithful to the new order of government, and to hate the King, the Queen, and royalty.

“To the first,” replied Her Highness, “I willingly submit.  To the second, how can I accede?  There is nothing of which I can accuse the Royal Family.  To hate them is against my nature.  They are my Sovereigns.  They are my friends and relations.  I have served them for many years, and never have I found reason for the slightest complaint.”

The Princess could no longer articulate.  She fell into the arms of her attendant.  The fatal signal was pronounced.  She recovered, and, crossing the court of the prison, which was bathed with the blood of mutilated victims, involuntarily exclaimed, “Gracious Heaven!  What a sight is this!” and fell into a fit.

Nearest to her in the mob stood a mulatto, whom she had caused to be baptized, educated, and maintained; but whom, for ill-conduct, she had latterly excluded from her presence.  This miscreant struck at her with his halbert.  The blow removed her cap.  Her luxuriant hair (as if to hide her angelic beauty from the sight of the murderers, pressing tiger-like around to pollute that form, the virtues of which equalled its physical perfection)—­her luxuriant hair fell around and veiled her a moment from view.  An individual, to whom I was nearly allied, seeing the miscreants somewhat staggered, sprang forward to the rescue; but the mulatto wounded him.  The Princess was lost to all feeling from the moment the monster first struck at her.  But the demons would not quit their prey.  She expired gashed with wounds.