Abbot Edgeworth was taken from his obscure lodging, in the first place, to the Convention, where many of the members made a demonstration in admiration of his courage; for, by this time, to be a priest was to be in danger of death. With the fall of the King’s head, the utter Reign of Terror was to commence. Garat, while in his carriage, conveying the Abbot to the Temple, broke out into admiration of the King. “Great heavens!” he cried, “with what a terrible mission am I not charged! What a man is this Louis XVI—what resignation he shows, and what courage! No mere human strength could give such force; in this there is something of the supernatural.” The priest remained silent; he hesitated to betray himself. Not a word more was said up to the moment when the carriage stopped at the Temple. The Abbé remarked that the first room through which they passed was filled with armed men. Thence they passed to a larger apartment, which the Abbé saw had been a chapel; but the signs of religion had been swept away—the altar was broken in pieces. Here the Abbé was searched for weapons by a number of rough men, while the minister passed up into the King’s cell. When the Abbé followed him, the old man fell at the King’s feet, and burst into tears, with which the King mingled his own. “Pardon me,” said Louis, raising him, “this is indeed weakness! I have so long lived amongst my enemies, that I have grown to think little of their hatred, and my heart has grown hard and callous. But the sight of an old friend restores to me that tenderness which I thought was long since dead, and I weep in spite of my will to be unmoved.” Then, taking the priest by the hand, he drew him into the little turret which served him for a studio. In this room, all that was to be found consisted of a couple of chairs, a small earthenware stove, a few books, and an ivory crucifix. “I have,” said he to the Abbé, “arrived at that moment in my life when I must earnestly seek to make my peace with heaven, so that I may humbly hope to pass from a weary life to one of peace and quietude.” With these words, he produced his will, and read it over twice to the Abbé, electing him as his judge in this final act of life. He feared that, in the very act of pardoning his enemies, he might accuse them, and he was specially desirous that any appearance of this nature should be avoided. His voice only faltered when he spoke of the Queen, his sister, and his children. He lived now only in the love he had for his family; apart from them, he had resigned all thoughts of life. A calm conversation ensued. The King inquired after many old friends; speaking, not with the air of a man who is vanishing into death, but with the appearance of a man who, after absence, asks eagerly for those he loved and left behind. Hour after hour passed away, and still the Abbé waited for the King to give an intimation that he wished to pray with the minister.