“Yes, my friends, all these crimes are being committed in the name of the King. But remark”—he struck his hand lightly on the rail before him—“remark that you may ask me whether the King be in every case directly responsible for them. Your hearts, attuned to the love of justice, may demand of me whether the King indeed dismisses with his blessing these young nobles who fight for Austria. If he sought his own advantage, you say, would he not rather retain them by his side as janissaries? Possibly. But what if I told you that he _has_ retained sufficient for this purpose; that this man, whom the generosity of the French people cannot move, has his band of assassins, few in number, perhaps, but desperate and ready; that all you have heard of the Austrian Committee, all you saw in February of last year of the _chevaliers du poignard_, is no bugbear, but truth itself!” Confused cries arose as the Girondin paused again, leaning over the balustrade of the tribune, but they were of short duration, for the whole Assembly was panting for his next words. Vergniaud drew himself up, thrusting a hand into his breast, and his voice rang out clear and solemn. “People of France, I make no random accusations. All that is being done against you on the frontiers is as nothing to the mine which is being laid here in Paris, not many yards from where I stand. We know whose hand shall apply the match, when the time is come, and shatter into a thousand fragments not only us, but our dreams, our hopes, our plans of better things for France. We know it—alas, that I should have to say it!—and yet the knowledge does not help us. We need something more ere we can stamp out this viperous brood. We want proofs—their plans or their names. . . . Fellow-citizens, here are both!” He drew out his left hand and held aloft a little roll of papers. Amid the cries and the applause, the stamping of feet, the struggling and pushing to gain a glimpse of the orator, Gilbert was able to slip unnoticed from his seat and make a way into the narrow staircase that led into the Passage des Feuillants. M. des Graves was right—terribly right! The blow had fallen, and the words he had just heard spelt death with no uncertain letters. What had Louis been able to do to save himself? CHAPTER X THE VICOMTE FINISHES HIS TOILET “I tint half mysel’ when my gude lord I did tine: A heart half sae brave a braid belt will never bin’, Nor the grassy sods cover a bosom half sae kin’; He's a drop o' dearest blude in this auld heart o' mine. . . . . . . . . O that I were with him i’ death’s gory fauld, O had I but the iron on whilk hauds him sae cauld!” —_Lament for Lord Maxwell_.