Meanwhile, those who could not gain an entrance to the besieged palace called loudly to those within, “Are they dead? Show us, then, their heads!” “Let him put it on!” cried the butcher, thrusting a coarse red cap of liberty towards the King on the end of a pike. The King smiled, and put the symbol of liberty upon his head. “Long live the King!” now cried some voices. The people now called upon the King to restore Roland—Madame Roland’s husband—to power, from which he had been dismissed. The King was inflexible. “This is not the moment for deliberation,” said the King. “Do not be afraid!” whispered a grenadier to Louis. “My friend,” said the King, “does my heart beat rapidly?” And he placed the man’s left hand upon his breast. The pulsation of the King’s heart was perfectly equable. “If you love the people, drink their health!” cried a man in rags, pushing forward a common bottle. The King smiled and took the bottle, saying, “To the nation!” And now the cries of “Long live the King!” were so strong that they floated out upon the crowd waiting to see the King’s body cast amongst them; and, instead, they learnt that once more the King had—if only for a time—reconciled himself to his people. Meanwhile the Queen was undergoing her agony. Only the conviction that she was more immeasurable hated than the King, prevented her from joining him before the people. She feared her presence might exasperate the people beyond all control. She remained in her bed-room, pressing her two children to her heart. Suddenly, a beating at the door, and the screams of many fierce women, upon hearing the words, “The Austrian is there!” But they had to call masculine help before they forced the door. They found the Queen unprotected, except by her children, whose presence probably saved their mother from assassination. Only a few ladies were with her, one of whom was that unhappy Princess de Lamballe, who would not remain in England, who returned to France, and who was one of the first to fall a victim to the Reign of Terror. The Queen was found by the screaming crowd of women standing as I have described, in a bay window, while between her and the mob, a long, heavy table had been placed across the window. By the Queen stood her daughter—near fourteen years of age. The Dauphin—then seven years of age, and extremely handsome—was placed upon the table before her. The men in the crowd were for the greater part silent; the women were implacable: one of these thrust forward a republican red cap, and told the Austrian to put it on Louis’s head. This she did. The child took it for a plaything, and smiled. And now a pretty, rosy, youthful girl came forward, and using the coarsest possible language, upbraided the Queen savagely. “Pray what harm have I done you?” “Me?—perhaps not. But what harm have you not done the nation?”