Clarisse groaned; she understood! The death on the scaffold, the last ride of those condemned by the Revolutionary Tribunal! Lebas had warned her; it was just the time! The tumbrils would pass there, in that street, under these very windows! Robespierre hastened to close the shutters. Clarisse, completely unnerved, gave way to grief and despair. So, all those people were doomed to die, because the hour of mercy had not yet come! In a few days, Robespierre had said it himself, in a few days they might be saved! The unfortunate victims must die on the very eve of deliverance! Oh, it was horrible! horrible! horrible! "What can be done? I am powerless," repeated the Incorruptible. What! he could do nothing? Could he not now, at this moment, do what he thought to do in three days' time? Could he not call out from the window to the mob, the long-yearned-for-cry, "Mercy! oh, have mercy!" He had but to call these words out to the crowd whose idol he was, and it would be an atonement for all his life. "Mercy!" and he was a hero, a savior! "Mercy!" and his son would no longer have the right to hate him, and to curse his name! Robespierre was grieved and distressed beyond measure. Clarisse did not know what she was saying! How could he stop the tumbrils, arrest that crowd, composed of the very scum of the nation? Why, there was not one self-respecting man among them! Nothing but a mob mad with the lust of blood. The only power they feared or respected was the Terror--the Scaffold! He, Robespierre, their idol? Nay, he was not! Their idol was the executioner! To fight single-handed against such a besotted, blinded rabble would be madness, sheer madness! Clarisse paid no heed, but continued supplicating him with uplifted hands, deaf to all argument. The tumult of the mob, which sounded nearer, causing the very sashes to shake, announced the approach of the tumbrils. Robespierre, drawn in spite of himself to the window, partly opened the shutters to look out, followed by Clarisse who stopped as the hubbub of the crowd grew suddenly louder, and uttered a stifled cry-- "Here they are!" Robespierre closed the shutters again. Tears started to Clarisse's eyes. She appealed to the kindly qualities of his youth. She had known him ever compassionate and generous. He had but to call to mind how he had revolted against injustice, how solicitous he had ever been for the weak and oppressed. Think of that time! Think of it! and all the spirit of her youth rose to her lips in that cry of pity for the innocent victims of misrule. Yes, innocent! They were innocent! And he refused to save them!