int-Just turned towards Lebas and said to him, "Kill me."

"I have something better to do," answered Lebas, shooting himself
through the head.

A report from the stairway quickly followed. Meda with his second pistol
had shot Couthon and badly wounded him. The hall had suddenly become a
place of blood and death. The Jacobin chiefs, lately all-powerful, now
condemned, dead, or dying, presented a frightful spectacle. Two days
had changed the course of events in France. The Reign of Terror was at
an end.

Robespierre lay on a table, his head supported by a small deal box. The
blood flowed slowly from his mouth. He was silent, giving no sign of
pain or feeling. He was taken to the Conciergerie, whither other
prisoners of his faction were being brought. Saint-Just and Couthon were
already there.

Five o'clock came. The carts had drawn up as usual at the gate of the
prison, waiting for the condemned. This time there was a new spectacle
for the people, who had become wearied with executions, but were on the
alert for the fresh sensation promised them. It was no time to
temporize. The Convention had ordered the immediate execution of its
foes. As Robespierre, with a blood-stained cloth round his face, entered
the cart, there was a shout of joy and triumph from the assembled crowd.
The late all-powerful man had not a friend left.

On the scaffold the executioner tore the cloth from Robespierre's
wounded face. A terrible cry of pain followed, the first sign of
suffering he had given. In a minute more his head had fallen into the
gory basket, and France was avenged. It was the 28th of July, 1794, less
than four months after the death of Danton had left all the power in his
hands. In that and the following days one hundred and three executions
sealed the fate of the defeated enemies of the Convention. Justice had
been done; the Terror was at an end.

_THE BURNING OF MOSCOW._

From west to east across Europe had marched the army of the great
conqueror, no nation daring to draw a hostile sword, none venturing to
place an obstacle in its path. Across Russia it had marched almost as
triumphantly, breaking irresistibly through the dams of armed men in its
way, sweeping onward with the strength and majesty of fate. At length it
had reached the heart of the empire of the czars, and before it lay
displayed the ancient capital of the Muscovite kings, time-honored
Moscow.

This great city was revealed to the eyes of the wea