“Do they think me such a coward,” he cried, “as to deprive my enemies of my life? Do they think if a knife is given me to feed with, I shall save the guillotine the trouble of destroying me? Poor creatures! I am accused of public crimes—I have committed no crimes; and, therefore, why should I so much fear death as to anticipate its terrors. I die innocent, and therefore, fearlessly. I would that my blood might atone for France, and that thereby the troubles I foresee coming be averted.” At six o’clock, Garat, the reader of the sentence, and Santerre, had an interview with the King, to bring the answer of the Convention to his commands. The Convention had decided that no farther time should be given to the King. A few members had shown some sentiment of mercy. The reply was the exhibition of half a dozen sabres on the part of the fiercer deputies, who declared that if these men who pleaded for the concession of the King’s request were not silent living, they should be mute dead. These courageous men, however, fought the good fight of pity through five hours. A majority of thirty-four refused all delay. One man, Kersaint, protested with a reckless nobleness of courage, which has placed him in the rank of great heroes. He gave in this written protest:— “CITIZENS,— “It is impossible for me any longer to support the disgrace of sitting in the Convention with bloodthirsty men, when their opinion, aided by terror, prevails over that of good men. If the love of my country has forced me to endure the misfortune of being one in a body of men amongst whom there is a section who applaud the murders of September, I will at least defend my memory from the charge of having been their accomplice. I have but the present moment in which to do this act; to-morrow it will be too late.” The Convention was angered, not confounded, by this language. The Minister of Justice was charged to inform the Citizen Louis that he could see the priest whom he had named, and that he could see his family without any interference by his gaolers,—but that on the morrow he must die. The King accepted the decision without a murmur; for he did not so much battle for those days’ longer life, as ask for a few hours’ pause between life and eternity. He asked Malsherbes to seek the priest. “’Tis a strange request to make to one of the school of philosophers,” he said, with a smile; “but I have always preserved my faith as a curb on my power as a King. As a consolation in mine adversity, I have proved it in the depths of my prison; and if ever you should be sentenced to a death similar to mine, I trust you may find the same solace in your last moments.” The Abbé Edgeworth and the ex-King were old and fast friends. The priest did not hesitate a moment, and at once hastened to the prison, albeit he knew that the probability was that he would never be free again.