“Sire,” said the man of religion, “compare yourself to One far greater than yourself, who was bound with cords, and who will soon welcome you as a brother.” The King looked to heaven, appeased, but the royal pride still lingered. “Truly, only the Divine example enables me to bear this disgrace.” It is probable this final demonstration, in his very extremity, of his superiority to touch from common hands, helped to harden the nation against the life of the widow. On the other hand, it proved the first occasion on which he showed the least sign of impatience with his tormentors. “Do as you will,” he said. “I will drink the cup to the dregs.” Supported by the help of the aged minister, he ascended the steps of the scaffold, and, it must be admitted, with signs of physical fear—the first he had yet shown. Possibly this condition of body was chiefly brought about by the actual physical resistance he had made at the foot of the ladder. But upon coming to the level, all his natural calmness or courage, whichever it was, came to his aid; and, stepping quickly forward across the platform without help, he contemplated the means of his death. Suddenly, he turned, and faced the people, and used the royal gesture of his life. It was quite natural—a habit of his life—and testified to no violent defiance of his position, and of those who placed him where he stood. The drummers mechanically obeyed. “People,” he said, in a voice which was heard afar off, even in the very confines of the square,—“People, I die innocent of all the crimes of which I am declared guilty. I forgive those who send me to death, and I pray God that the blood you are about to shed may not fall upon France.” The crowd trembled—murmured. He was about to speak again, when the officer of the troop gave orders to the drums to beat and the King’s voice was drowned. He had said enough. Nothing could add to the majesty of those few words. The agony was spared him of learning who the man was that gave the order which drowned his last words. It was the Count d’Oyat, a natural son of Louis XV; and therefore by blood, if not by marriage, the King’s uncle—Louis XVI being the grandson of Louis XV. What a fate! His cousin voted for his death, and the last words he uttered were drowned by the command of his uncle. The condemned man turned slowly away. As they fastened him to the plank, he cast one look upon the praying minister, and the next moment the plank was sinking forward, carrying down Louis of France, his face towards the earth. Another moment—the time for the passage of the heavy blade—and Louis of France was dead! CHAPTER LV. WHAT FOLLOWS. I saw Louis XVI die. “Go,” said Robespierre, “see liberty declared, and a King proved to be no more than a man.” I stood amongst those at the foot of the scaffold. I will say no more than this—Louis died bravely, and like a man. And I think the people were sorry. Of course they had more to regret before the Reign of Terror was over.