'Look here, Beast,' she said, letting her streamer hang down above his head; 'is not this like a scythe? am not I Death? The people call me so! See! I suspend the scythe above your head; come on! the devil is waiting for you without; come on!' 'Come on, come on!' roared the mob. 'Were you able to escape in the forest?' she asked. He did not answer, but looked at her with filmy eyes. 'No,' she replied to herself, 'no, you were not able. I shut the way with a curse. Did your eyes help you? No; I blinded them with a curse. Did your ears assist you? No; I stopped them with a curse. Did your hands do you good service? No; I paralysed them with a curse. Did your feet bear you swiftly along? No; I lamed them with a curse. Come with me; I must hand you over to my friend the devil.' Bailly sprang to his feet, rang his bell repeatedly, cried to the people to listen to him, but could only obtain a half audience. He laboured to calm this unbridled multitude possessed by rage; he exposed with eloquence that prudence, necessity, reason demand that the life of the accused should be spared till he had been given every opportunity of exculpating himself from the charges laid against him. He showed that before he could be convicted every attempt should be made to discover his accomplices. But his eloquence was in vain. The people were starving, and one of the causes of their hunger was in their power. Some of these people had not eaten for two days, and hunger makes all animals, man included, ferocious. 'I commit him to the prison of the Abbaye Saint-Germain,' said Bailly, in despair. 'Guards, you are responsible for his safety. Guards, attend to me; let him be injured at your peril. Close your ranks about him, and keep off the mob. You are responsible,' he again cried, trembling in his alarm; 'remember!' With Berthier and the national guard the rest of those in the hall poured out, leaving the electors alone, listening to the hideous rout outside. On the steps the crowd grappled with the soldiers for the victim; they were thrust this way and that way; they were tripped up; they were blinded by their hats being drawn over their eyes. Foremost was the plaster-cast maker. He gave a great shout,--his hand was on Berthier's collar. The next to seize him was the doctor. 'Where is my daughter?' asked the old man, in a scream. The prisoner did not answer. 'Don't kill him!' shrieked the doctor, as the young man smote at him. 'Spare him till he has told me where my little daughter is. My darling Veronique, where is she? Tell me, Berthier, tell me.' He shook him violently. 'Give me back my Antoinette!' screamed the hag who had accused him in the hall. 'Sacré, let me go!' cried Berthier, struggling with the plaster-cast dealer. 'Answer me, man, for the death of my friend Matthias André!' exclaimed Étienne Percenez, leaping at his throat.