in moody silence. One, in the
delirium of enthusiasm, throwing his arms above his head, shouted,
"This is the most glorious day of my life!" Vergniaud, seated upon the
highest bench, with the composure of philosophy and piety combined,
looked upon the scene, exulting in the victory his own spirit had
achieved over peril and death.

The weakness which a few displayed was but momentary. They rallied
their energies boldly to meet their inevitable doom. They gathered for
a moment around the corpse of their lifeless companion, and were then
formed in procession, to march back to their cells. It was midnight as
the condemned Girondists were led from the bar of the Palace of
Justice back to the dungeons of the Conciergerie, there to wait till
the swift-winged hours should bring the dawn which was to guide their
steps to the guillotine. Their presence of mind had now returned, and
their bosoms glowed with the loftiest enthusiasm. In fulfillment of a
promise they had made their fellow-prisoners, to inform them of their
fate by the echoes of their voices, they burst into the Marseillaise
Hymn. The vaults of the Conciergerie rang with the song as they
shouted, in tones of exultant energy,

"Allons, enfans de la patrie,
Le jour de glorie est arrive,
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'etendard sanglant est leve.

"Come! children of your country, come!
The day of glory dawns on high,
And tyranny has wide unfurl'd
Her blood-stain'd banner in the sky."

It was their death-knell. As they were slowly led along through the
gloomy corridors of their prison to the cells, these dirge-like
wailings of a triumphant song penetrated the remotest dungeons of that
dismal abode, and roused every wretched head from its pallet. The arms
of the guard clattered along the stone floor of the subterranean
caverns, and the unhappy victims of the Revolution, roused from the
temporary oblivion of sleep, or from dreams of the homes of refinement
and luxury from which they had been torn, glared through the iron
gratings upon the melancholy procession, and uttered last words of
adieu to those whose fate they almost envied. The acquittal of the
Girondists would have given them some little hope that they also might
find mercy. Now they sunk back upon their pillows in despair, and
lamentations and wailings filled the prison.

The condemned, now that their fate was sealed, had laid aside all
weakness, and, mutuall