The King turned, and a last look of pleasure shone upon his face. He was essentially a religious man, but he had despaired of being permitted to take the communion, for the Convention, amongst other things, had abolished the theory and practice of the Lord’s Supper. The Abbé therefore sought the commissaries on duty, and asked for the necessary articles, without which, according to the Roman Church, the ceremony of the communion cannot be effected. The gaol authorities were excessively confused. On the one hand, they were ashamed to refuse this consolation to a dying man; on the other, the constitution of the country then held that this belief in transubstantiation, or the passage of the bread and wine into the actual body and blood of Christ at their raising, was a superstition. “And if we give you permission,” cried one of the leading men, “how do we know you will not cheat the scaffold of his blood by poisoning him with the holy wafer? It is well known to us that certain kings have been poisoned in the holy wafer, given to them as the very blood of the Redeemer.” “I can set that doubt at rest,” said the Abbé. “You can yourselves supply me with both bread and wine.” The hope of “communicating” elevated the dying King almost to ecstasy. He fell upon his knees, and until far into the night recited the simple, almost innocent, sins of which he had been guilty. A very innocent and simple-hearted man, the list could not have been formidable. Then he lay down, and fell asleep, as calmly as a little child—as though that final night was to be succeeded by a long and peaceful morrow. CHAPTER LIII. THE SACRIFICE OF BLOOD. The Abbé, meanwhile, prayed unceasingly in an outer chamber, and separated only from the King’s by a wooden partition. He and Cléry, the recently-appointed but faithful attendant on the King, heard the condemned man’s breath regular and peaceful, uninterrupted by cries or restlessness. His heart beat regularly, with no more fear than is experienced by clockwork which has nearly run down, and is about to stop. At five, it was necessary to awaken the King. “Has it struck five?” he inquired, of Cléry. “Not yet, by the town clock,” the man replied “but several bells have sounded the hour.” “I have slept heartily,” remarked the King; “I suppose because, yesterday, I was very much fatigued.” Cléry now lighted the fire, and helped his dying master to dress. The King “communicated,” the altar being raised in the room in which he usually sat. He took the substantiated, or, rather, consecrated, bread, with awful gravity, but with utter calmness. While the priest was disrobing, the King retired to the little turret; and here, being joined by Cléry, the good servant knelt, and requested the King’s blessing. Louis XVI raised his hand, and desired him to convey that blessing, through himself, to all who loved their King, and especially to those of his gaolers who had shown to the royal family anything like pity or kindness.