She was now more closely watched. The Princess Elizabeth, at peace, become essentially a religious woman, contrived to obtain intelligence of what was happening. One Huc—once valet to the King when in prosperity—conveyed messages through the friendly Toulan into the prison. These messages were put in the pipe of a portable fireplace, and found by the Princess Elizabeth, who replied in letters written with sympathetic ink, so that only those who knew how to treat them could read their contents. These letters contained minutes of all that was doing in Europe in the royal cause. Many promising lines thus came to the prison. The Queen heard them read, said a vacant word or two, and sank back into her usual condition of partial lethargy. She only came back to life when she heard the voices of either of her children. Then she lived. When they were silent, she was dead, though her heart still beat. CHAPTER LVI. THE REIGN OF TERROR. The remains of Louis XVI were conveyed in a cart to the graveyard, flung into a hole, and lime cast upon the remains, that the bones might never be found, in order to be exalted into relics. Paris was silent—except for the voices of the more excited of the Revolutionists, who overran the city, announcing the death of the tyrant, and proclaiming the advent of liberty. The body of the people did not respond to this enthusiasm—they did not confound punishment with victory. The body of the King was not cold before the people began asking themselves whether or not a righteous act had been committed. The King’s death left this problem to be discussed by the nation. Many years have elapsed as I write, and the problem is still discussed—had the people a right to kill Louis XVI? The result of the King’s death upon the more moderate Republicans, and upon those who had agreed to the new constitution, but were Royalists at heart, were in some cases terrible. To many, this execution appeared a sacrilege, which must bring down upon the people who had committed it one of those vengeances in which heaven demands for the spilt blood of one just man the blood of an entire people. Men died of grief when they learnt the awful facts, and many more went mad. Women cast themselves in panic from housetops, others from the bridges into the River Seine. Sisters, wives, and mothers of the Conventionalists, who had condemned lovers to death, shrank from them as from lepers. One of the principal judges at the trial, Michael Lepelletier, was almost immediately stabbed in an eating-house by one Paris, a hot-headed Royalist, who escaped only for a short time. Tracked, he shot himself; and upon the body was found a paper bearing these words:— “I alone did the deed—let no other man be suspected. I did not mean to kill the wretch, Lepelletier, but he came in my way. I was waiting for the parricide D’Orleans, of whom I hoped to rid the world. All Frenchmen have become cowards.”