ght. "That makes you afraid," said the assassin; "you will see
plenty more like it."

The rest of the escort followed the example set them. The carriages go
on again, and so do the massacres. They kill along the route, and they
kill on arriving at the Abbey. Towards five o'clock, Billaud-Varennes
presents himself there, wearing his municipal scarf. "People," says
he--what he calls {364} people is a band of salaried
assassins--"people, thou immolatest thine enemies, thou art doing thy
duty." Then he walks into the midst of the dead bodies, dipping his
feet in blood, and fraternizes with the murderers. "There is nothing
more to do here," exclaims Maillard; "let us go to the Carmelites."

At the Carmelites, one hundred and eighty priests, crowded into the
church and convent, were awaiting their fate with pious resignation.
Two days before, Manuel had said to them ironically: "In forty-eight
hours you will all be free. Get ready to go into a foreign country and
enjoy the repose you cannot find here." And on the previous day a
gendarme had said to the Archbishop of Arles, blowing the smoke from
his pipe into his face as he did so: "It is to-morrow, then, that they
are going to kill Your Grandeur." A short time before the massacre
began, the victims were sent into the garden. At the bottom of it was
an orangery which has since become a chapel. Mgr. Dulau, Archbishop of
Arles, and the Bishops of Beauvais and de Saintes, both of whom were
named de la Rochefoucauld, kneeled down with the other priests and
recited the last prayers. The murderers approached. The Archbishop of
Arles, who was upwards of eighty, advanced to meet them. "I am he whom
you seek," he said; "my sacrifice is made; but spare these worthy
priests; they will pray for you on earth, and I in heaven." They
insulted him before they struck him. "I have never done harm to any
one," said he. An assassin {365} responded: "Very well; I'll do some
to you," and killed him. The other priests were chased around the
garden from one tree to another, and shot down. During this infernal
hunt the murderers were shouting with laughter and singing their
favorite song: _Dansez la Carmagnole_!

The massacre of the Carmelites is over. "Let us go back to the Abbey!"
cries Maillard; "we shall find more game there." This time there is a
pretence of justice made. The tribunal is the vestibule of the Abbey;
Maillard, the chief cut-throat, is president; the assass