She grew red and pale by turns, as she was dragged through the mob. The patience and pity exhibited by the King she could not imitate. Her lips were bitter each moment; but she never took her dry, hot eyes from the raging people. Suddenly, her head falls humbly, and, her hands being tied, she makes the sign of the cross by three motions of the head. Her pride had passed with that unseen blessing from the house on her way to execution. When the Palace of the Tuileries came in view—the place where she had spent nearly half her life—tears fell down her face. A few turns of the wheels, and she was at the foot of the scaffold. Reaching the place, accidentally she trod upon one of the executioners’ feet. “Pardon me,” she said, in a sweet, courtly voice. She knelt for an instant, rose, stretched her neck towards the distant towers of the Temple, and cried, “Good-bye, my children! I am going to your father.” She did not, like her husband, speed to Heaven. It was rather that she fled from earth. The executioner was trembling more than his victim, so that she suffered a long agony of a few moments after she was upon the plank. The assistant executioner took his brother’s place. The head fell. It was taken up and carried around the scaffold. “_Long live the Republic!_” saluted this brave display. The Revolution thought itself avenged—it was befouled. She came a foreigner—and they killed her. Thus she died. Frivolous in prosperity, she died with intrepidity. Her misfortune was her mistrust of the people in her early days—her catastrophe, that all the sin and wickedness of the Court was laid to her account. Called upon to fill a throne, those who called her gave her not even a tomb—for you may read in a parish register, “_For the coffin of the Widow Capet, six shillings!_” With her life, France threw away all Christian mercy. Crimson swept over the breadth and length of the land. CHAPTER LX. THE TWENTY-TWO. The twenty-two had literally been under the control of the police, though not arrested, since May 31st. But as events progressed, their destruction became almost necessary to the safety of those members of the Convention, who, obtaining power wholly through the will of the more violent, could only retain it by a perfect recognition of the will of those who had given them the victory. The twenty-two were therefore seized, and placed in a building converted from a convent into a prison, and here they made full preparations to die. To this day, the walls of this place may be seen covered with mementoes of the prison-days of the victims of the Revolution. They are chiefly short verses, written in blood, the purple hues of which many of the inscriptions still retain. A few days after the Queen’s day of peace arrived, their trial commenced. Of what were they accused? Really, nothing; but they were in the way, and a threatening division of the masses insisted upon their death.