The deputations and the assembly passed on; then came a change in the music, a hush, as if something of unusual interest were approaching. This dead silence was broken by low murmurs, more thrilling than shouts, while the thousands that still remained in the Champ de Mars surged around the altar and crowded toward the throne. It was only seven men, bowed, thin, white-haired, and broken, who came slowly forward from a seat they had occupied, and with faltering steps, were about to pass before the throne. The color fled from Marie Antoinette’s face when she saw this pitiful band of men, some old without years to make them so, all with a look of broken-hearted apathy in their eyes, ready to pass before the throne like ghosts calling for judgment. The king turned white, and a spasm of pain shot athwart his face. The nobles, who stood behind the throne, shrunk back, casting glances of sudden apprehension on each other. They need not have dreaded those poor broken men, for grief and privation had made them weak as little children. If any expression appeared upon their wan faces, it was that of vague, wondering gratitude toward the king, who saw them free, and made no protest. The court of France was gathered, like ghosts, about the throne, upon which a shrinking king and queen sat, while the live shadows of an ancient despotism crept toward them with downcast faces, and steps that faltered in their walking. Then a look of infinite pity came into the king’s face, and clasping his hands, like one who inwardly asks forgiveness of God for sins not altogether his own, he bowed his head upon his breast, and waited for these ghostly reproaches to pass on. But the queen sat upright, clasping her child firmly, as if to shield him from the indignant murmurs of the people, which came fearfully to her ear. The seven prisoners—for these were all the Bastille contained when it was torn down—paused an instant before the throne, and one of them called out, in a broken voice, “Thanks, sire, that you have made us free!” The king lifted his head, and these wronged men saw that his eyes were full of tears. The people who stood nearest saw it, and the vindictive spirit which had forced this trying scene on their monarch, gave way to bursts of generous sympathy. “Down with the Bastille! Long live the king!” burst from a thousand lips that had been bitter with curses a moment before. “Down with the Bastille! Long live the king!” rolled back among the thousands already defiling toward Paris; and that which the extremists had intended as an insult, was rolled into the most glorious events of the day. “Thank God that you are free!” said Louis, in a low voice, that scarcely reached any one but the queen. She spoke louder, and with generous enthusiasm. “There are none among all these thousands who grieve for your sufferings, or desire their redress more than the king and his wife,” she said.