in the larger apartment,
finding a certain kind of support in society. In a low tone of voice
they conversed with each other. They were worn out with excitement,
fatigue, and want of sleep. Some wept. Sleep kindly came to some, and
lulled their spirits into momentary oblivion.

At ten o'clock the iron doors grated on their hinges, and the tramp of
the gens d'armes, with the clattering of their sabers, was heard
reverberating through the gloomy corridors and vaults of their
dungeon, as they came, with the executioners, to lead the condemned to
the scaffold. Their long hair was cut from their necks, that the ax,
with unobstructed edge, might do its work. Each one left some simple
and affecting souvenir to friends. Gensonne picked up a lock of his
black hair, and gave it to the Abbe Lambert to give to his wife. "Tell
her," said he, "that it is the only memorial of my love which I can
transmit to her, and that my last thoughts in death were hers."
Vergniaud drew from his pocket his watch, and, with his knife,
scratched upon the case a few lines of tender remembrance, and sent
the token to a young lady to whom he was devotedly attached, and to
whom he was ere long to have been married. Each gave to the abbe some
legacy of affection to be conveyed to loved ones who were to be left
behind. Few emotions are stronger in the hour of death than the desire
to be embalmed in the affections of those who are dear to us.

All being ready, the gens d'armes marched the condemned, in a column,
into the prison-yard, where five rude carts were awaiting them, to
convey them to the scaffold. The countless thousands of Paris were
swarming around the prison, filling the court, and rolling, like ocean
tides, into every adjacent avenue. Each cart contained five persons,
with the exception of the last, into which the dead body of Valaze had
been cast with four of his living companions.

And now came to the Girondists their hour of triumph. Heroism rose
exultant over all ills. The brilliant sun and the elastic air of an
October morning invigorated their bodies, and the scene of sublimity
through which they were passing stimulated their spirits to the
highest pitch of enthusiasm. As the carts moved from the court-yard,
with one simultaneous voice, clear and sonorous, the Girondists burst
into the Marseillaise Hymn. The crowd gazed in silence as this
funereal chant, not like the wailings of a dirge, but like the strains
of an exultant song, swelle