And upward to that dark old pile of despotism, as to the temple of Liberty herself, are turned those tens of thousands of swarthy faces, dark with the smoke of battle, yet livid with excitement and exhaustion--and as they realize that within those walls the question of their fate and that of their country is then being settled--that from that night's counsels in that vast and ancient edifice are to flow peace and prosperity, and freedom and plenty, or else all the untold terrors of anarchy, civil war, bloodshed, violence and strife--what wonder that the sitting of the council seemed endless and their own impatience became intolerable--that all imaginable doubts and fears and absurd apprehensions took possession of their inflamed imaginations?--that at one time the rumor should fly, and win credence as it flew, that the Provisional Government were consulting with the friends of Henry V.--or again, that they were considering the question of a Regency--and that under such influences they should roar and yell, and thunder for admission at the gates, and burden the air with their shouts? "No Bourbons! No kings! No Regency! Death--death to all kings! La Republique! La Republique! La Republique!" At times, in terrific concert, would the thousands of uplifted throats roar forth the chorus of that startling canticle of '92: "Vive la republique! Vive la republique! Debout, peuple Francais! debout, peuple heroique! Debout, peuple Francais! Vive la republique!" Then the song would change and the mournful notes of the "Death Hymn of the Girondins,"--"Mourir Pour la Patrie"--would swell in wild yet solemn cadence on the wintry blast: DEATH HYMN OF THE GIRONDINS. By the voice of the signal cannon, France calls her sons their aid to lend; "Let us go," the soldier cries, "to battle! 'Tis our mother we defend!" To die on Freedom's Altar--to die on Freedom's Altar! 'Tis the noblest of fates; who to meet it would falter! We who fall afar from the battle, Lone and unknown obscurely die, But give at least our parting blessings Unto France and Freedom high. To die on Freedom's Altar--to die on Freedom's Altar! 'Tis the noblest of fates; who to meet it would falter!