And now came the time when the palace was besieged. The King, looking from his window, saw the meeting of a huge crowd without any alarm: he was, by this time, accustomed to sudden crowds. Again a soldier had led the way for the mob. An artillery officer, instead of obeying orders, and retiring his guns to defend the palace, pointed to its windows, and cried, “The enemy is there!” Two minutes after, the people had got possession of the Tuileries. The king—who, whatever his faults, was no coward—rushed forward towards the massive folding-doors, which the populace finding bolted, were breaking open. As he approached, the panels fell at his feet. He ordered a couple of valets to open these folding-doors. “What have I to fear,” he said, “from my people?” A ragged man rushed forward, and thrust a stick, pointed with iron, at the King. A grenadier of the guard struck it down with his bayonet. And now the man fell, whether in a fit or not will always remain a question. Certainly, as he rushed forward, he was foaming at the mouth. All that is known farther of him is this—that the mass pressing forward, he was trampled to death. For a moment, the power of majesty was once more asserted. He had left the Queen, the royal children, and his noble sister, Madame Elizabeth, in an inner room, and had ordered the door to be closed after him. This had been done. The king now moved to another room, larger, pretending that there he could speak to a greater number of citizens. Suddenly, hearing a scuffle, the King turned, to find the mob surrounding Madame Elizabeth, who was endeavoring to reach the King’s side. “It is the Queen!” screamed several fierce voices. And they were the voices of women. In a moment, they turned upon her. The abhorred Queen was before them, as they thought. In another moment she would have been killed. “It is Madame Elizabeth!” cried the soldiers. The mob fell back with reverence. Even at that point they could respect Elizabeth, the purity and simplicity of whose life formed the one favorable point in the united lives of the royal family, and one to which the whole mass of the people gave implicit credence. But she was to die with her family. “Ah! what have you done?” she cried. “Had they been allowed to take me for the Queen, and have killed me, I had perhaps saved the Queen’s life!” By this time, about twenty of the King’s friends stood about him, their swords drawn. “Put up your swords,” said the King; “this multitude’s more excited than guilty.” “Where is the Austrian?” now resounded upon all sides. The question which excited the multitude was against the priesthood, whose members, known to favor royalty, were abhorred by the people. The king had refused to sign an act by virtue of which the priesthood would have been annihilated. A butcher, named Legendre, cried to the King, “The people are weary of being your plaything and your victim!”