At her trial, it being maintained that the nature of the blow which killed Marat had been that of one accomplished in the use of the dagger, she cried, “Miserable wretch—he takes me for an assassin!” The counsel for her defence urged that she only pleaded that in killing Marat she was doing a public good. The jury directly found her guilty, and ordered her property to be confiscated. “Sir,” she said to her defender, “you have done well. But I cannot pay you, for you have heard how my property has been seized. However, I do you this honor; I pray that you will pay the few pieces of silver I owe to the prison people—they ought to be paid.” Going back to her prison, where the painter finished her portrait, she conversed about painting. A knock at the cell-door, and the executioner entered, carrying scissors with which to cut away her hair, and the red garments worn by the condemned on their way to execution. “Sir,” she said to the painter, “I can only offer you a lock of hair.” And taking the gaoler’s scissors, she cut a lock of the wonderful hair. A priest coming, she said, “I thank those who have been kind enough to send you, but I do not require your services. The blood I have spilt, and my own, which I am about to shed, are the only sacrifices I can offer the Eternal.” The executioner now cut off her hair, and flung over her head the red garment. “This,” she said, “is the toilette of death, arranged by somewhat rude hands, but it leads to immortality.” As she stepped upon the cart, such as carried all those condemned to death to the place of execution, a violent storm burst over Paris. Women danced about the death-cart, uttering imprecations; hers was the only calm face to be seen. Strangely enough, the rain wetting the red flannel—her only covering to the waist—it clung to her skin, and betrayed her to be exquisitely formed, especially as her hands were so tied behind her that she was forced to hold herself upright. As she neared the scaffold, the sun appeared, and the gold threads in her hair shone out magnificently. The leaders of the rebellion, Danton, Robespierre, Camille Desmoulins, standing at a window, saw her pass. She had preserved them from Marat, but, at the same time, she had shown how a tyrant could be slain. She saved their lives by her act; but she taught, also, how they might be taken. One Adam Lux, a German, was hopelessly stricken by love as she passed along. He followed to the scaffold’s feet, asking to die with her. Reaching the scaffold, she turned pale, and, for one moment, shrank; but the next, recovering herself, ascended the steps as rapidly as her long red dress and pinioned arms would allow. When the executioner pulled down her dress, that her neck might be bare, she was for the last time outraged while living. She placed herself upon the plank, and, the next moment, her head fell.