The far end and the dark aisles behind the columns were still filled with the Commons in a crowd. Some remained still seated, some few more had risen; all were keeping silent, and only a very few crept shamefacedly along the walls toward the doors. With the Commons there now mixed such of the clergy as had dared to remain, and not a few of the public audience; of these last many lingered curiously, hanging on in the corners and sides of the place, watching for what was to come. One could not see from that hall any part of the life without. Its windows were high. Its principal light was from the glazed, oval skylight in the roof, covered and tempered by a veil of cloth. One could not hear the crowd which had gathered outside in the broad avenue to see the king and his coaches go by, and which remained in great numbers to attend the exit of the Commons when these should leave. That inner place was isolated. But the seven or eight hundred men standing at bay therein could feel all about them the great mass of soldiery upon the heights in the woods, the regiments marching in from the frontiers, the counter-gatherings of mobs and of armed civilians down the valley in Paris, two hours away--all the expectancy of arms. Workmen entered to remove the hangings and to dismantle the hall. Still the Commons kept their places, as yet undecided; no general decision taken, none proposed; but yet the mass of them unmoving, and by their mere unmoving refusing the command of the crown. It was at this moment, before as yet the artisans had begun their business of ladders and hammering, that there came out from the robing-room and from behind the cloths of the throne a figure with which the ceremony of the States General had already rendered them familiar: it was young Dreux Brézé, elegant, a trifle effeminate, little more than a boy. He carried his white wand of the master of ceremonies, as he had carried it when the session opened, and his person was, by the costume of his office, all gold and plumes and many diamonds. He performed his simple duty: he came up to Bailly, the president, and said: “Sir, you heard the order of the king?” Bailly answered in silence, while men craned forward to hear: “Sir, the Assembly stands adjourned only by its own vote. I cannot disperse it until it has debated upon that adjournment.” A pompous rigmarole enough, but thick with coming years. Said young Brézé: “Am I to give that to the king as your reply?” And Bailly answered: “Yes.” Then, turning to his colleagues, Bailly had begun to give his reasons to them, when he found striding up to his side, and facing Brézé, the heavy vigour of Mirabeau. It was Mirabeau, so striding up, who in his powerful voice interposed. With no official right to mandate, he spoke most famous words, of which tradition has made a varied and doubtful legend, but which were in substance these: