The Furies--Rose Lacombe--Théroigne de Méricourt--Madame Cochet--Marie Adrian (Siege of Lyons)--Renée Langevin--Madlle. de la Rochefoucault--Madame Dufief (War in La Vendée)--Félicité and Théophile de Fernig, Officers on Dumouriez's Staff--Mary Schelienck--Thérèse Figueur, French Dragoon--"William Roberts," the Manchester Heroine, Sergeant in the 15th Light Dragoons and the 37th Foot--Mary Anne Talbot, Drummer in the 82nd, Cabin Boy on board the Brunswick, and Middy on board the Vesuvius--Highland Soldier's Wife at the Storming of New Vigie--Susan Frost--Peggy Monro (Irish Rebellion)--Martha Glar and other Swiss Heroines--Queen of Prussia at Jena--Marie Anne Elise Bonaparte, Princess Bacciochi--Maid of Saragossa--Manuella Sanchez, Benita, and other Heroines of Saragossa--Spanish Female Captain--Mrs. Dalbiac (Battle of Salamanca)--Ellenora Prochaska, Private in Lutzow's Rifle Corps--Augusta Frederica Krüger, Prussian Soldier--Louise Belletz, French Artillery Soldier--Mrs. Heald and Mrs. Helm (Chicago Massacre). The Furies were the female warriors of the Reign of Terror. When we think of their ferocious bravery, their barbarous, maniacal cruelty, the ascendency which they held, even over the great Republican leaders, their wild cries and still wilder deeds, they seem more like the weird figures in some hideous German legend than real, living, sentient women, with human hearts. Women, indeed, they could scarcely be termed; Amazons they were, as brave and as cruel as those of the Euxine. Yet, fiends though they appeared, they had often the pangs of hunger to goad them on; and if cruelty such as theirs _can_ be excused, starvation is the most reasonable plea that could be advanced. Though many of the large towns possessed Furies in those days, Paris was their proper home. There they lived on the sight, the smell, the taste of human blood. To picture their history rightly, the pen should be dipped in blood. Blood, since they were denied bread was all they cared for; and when aristocratic heads grew scarce, these fiends turned on one another, like famished wolves, to glut their insatiable thirst. The Guillotine was a central rallying point for the Furies. Round it they danced and sang by day; its steps formed their pillow by night. There they crowded together--Tricoteuses, Fileuses, Poissardes--shouting, gesticulating, screaming the "Marseillaise" or the "Ça Ira" with their wild, demoniac voices, as they watched the red cart deposit its living freight at the foot of the National Razor. When hunger pressed them very sore, they would snatch up swords, pikes, or scythes, and rush in crowds along the narrow, muddy, ill-paved streets, beating drums, waving red flags, brandishing their weapons, to demand bread from those who professed to guide the Republic.