The room was dark, close, and smelt abominably. He was wrapped in a dirty sheet, and sitting in a bath, across which was a rough piece of wood which he made his desk, for he passed hours in the water. He was writing when Charlotte Corday entered. He had finished this sentence:—“I demand that every man in France who has the blood of the Bourbons in his veins, however little, shall be put upon his trial, and his wife and children also.” She approached this human monster, her eyes downcast. He spoke to her imperiously—“What is the state of Normandy?” “Certain deputies have taken refuge in Caen.” “Their names?” She gave certain names, and he wrote them down. “Good!” he said; “before another week is past, they shall be guillotined.” At this moment she raised the dagger she took from the breast of her dress, and plunged it down into his bosom. “Help, my dear, help!” he cried, and fell back dead. Albertine, the woman, and a man named Basse rushed forward in time to see his last-drawn breath. By this time the water was like that crimson stream Marat was for ever demanding. He was bathed in it himself now. She did not attempt to escape. She drew out the dagger, let it fall, and took two or three steps to the window. The man Basse caught up a chair and beat her down, whereupon the woman, Albertine, trampled upon her. The news spread in an incalculably short space of time, and the seething people called up into the air, “Throw her out to us; we are waiting.” Soldiers rushed in, forming a hedge of steel about Charlotte Corday, and beat back the blaspheming crowd. Charlotte showed no fear, crossed her hands ready for the cords, and her first words were “Poor woman!” in reference to Albertine, who was rending the air with her cries. She said afterwards she had not asked herself the question, “Could this man be loved?” “Poor people!” she said to those who endeavored to tear her to pieces; “you desire my death, whilst you owe me an altar for having freed you from a monster! Oh, throw me to the people,” she said to the soldiers; “as they regret him, they are fit to be my executioners!” She was not cast among the people—at least, she died in peace. She boasted of her act, and declared herself a martyr. Paris turned pale at the news. The panic reaching the Convention, business was arrested. One Henriot, the Commandant-General of the National Guard, entered. “Tremble!” he cried. “Marat has been assassinated by a girl, who boasts of her deed! Tremble! Such a fate threatens all! Mistrust green ribbons, and let us swear to avenge the death of this great man.” Charlotte Corday, accused of murder, stood beautiful and smiling in the midst of accusers, all of whom wore fierce looks of hate and rage. She was fearless until she reached the street, when the blaze of shouts so terrified this young country girl, that she fainted. Restored to consciousness, (they had bound her weak hands), she cried, “Alas! do I still live?”