“I write to you, my sister,” she begins, “for the last time. I have been condemned, not to an ignominious death—that only awaits criminals—but to go and rejoin your brother. Innocent as he, I hope to show such firmness as the King’s in his last moments. I grieve bitterly at leaving my poor children. You know that I lived but for them and you—you who, in your love, have sacrificed all for us. I learnt, at my trial, that you are separated from my little girl. In what a position I leave you! I dare not write to her; they would not give her my letter, and, indeed, I do not know that you will receive this.” Some words of this final letter are inexpressibly touching. “Let my son never forget his father’s last words. _Let him never seek to avenge our deaths!_” She then goes on to apologize for the child’s possible conduct to her, after the influence over him necessarily obtained by Simon, his tutor, and meekly she urges that he is so young he is incapable of knowing what he does. “Think of me always,” she says, in conclusion. “Good heaven, and my children! How heart-rending it is to leave them for ever—for ever!” This letter being finished, she kissed each page lovingly, and folded it. So far, the Republic had not entirely declared against high heaven, and priests were still recognised by those who had subscribed to the articles of the Revolution, and one of these men was offered to Marie Antoinette to aid her in her last moments. She refused to see him. The Convention (still sitting) insisted upon one of these officials accompanying her to the scaffold. There was no devotion amongst them. All hesitated, for all feared that the Queen would be torn to pieces on her way to the scaffold. One proffered his help. “Thank you,” said the Queen; “I have no need of your services, though I am a great sinner. But I am about to receive a great sacrament.” “Martyrdom,” said the priest, in a low voice; and he bowed and retired. She prayed alone. However, she had been secretly informed that at a certain house on her way to execution a minister would be stationed, who would give her absolution as she passed in the cart. She dressed herself in the white gown, put a white cap on, bound with a black ribbon—and so came before the people. Then she drew back—her queendom still remained. She had not thought the people so fallen that she should be taken to the scaffold in the common cart. The King had been taken to death at least in such a vehicle as he had been accustomed to. Alas! When Louis died all pity had expired; with her death, all France was to gasp with thirst for blood. She mounted the cart—her hands having been bound behind her, and in the midst of a raging crowd. The cart swayed, and she could scarcely keep her seat on the plank.