While each armed body facing the other held its fire, awaiting the advantage gained by such reserve,--for in those days of short range, to let a trained troop opposing one fire first was to have a heavy advantage in the returning fire at close quarters,--Westermann, an Alsatian, Danton’s friend, mounted upon a horse, rode out from the popular ranks to parley in their own tongue with these Swiss mercenaries, German in speech, like himself. One of these fired, I think,--at least, so the best story goes,--and immediately a rapidly increasing, alternative rattle of individual shots broke out from the line of the windows, above from the militia and the volunteers below; and unexpectedly, the ranks opening to let them through, the two cannon from Marseilles gave tongue against the cannon of the guards. This time there was no breaking, and the more trained firing of the militia and the provincial volunteers permitted of no further charge from the guards. But the reciprocal attack began to fill the space before the palace with fallen men, neither side yet proclaiming an advantage. The Swiss Guards still held the main door of the Tuileries; the fire from its long tiers of windows was still well nourished; the muskets in the hands of the half-trained populace were still regularly recharged, and held their own. It was in this moment of doubt that Roederer, the politician who stood by the king at his eastern window, said to Louis that it was the duty of a monarch not to risk the state. “Look, Sire! A whole people are advancing! If the palace must fall, let it fall; but let the crown be saved.” Louis [Illustration: THE TUILERIES AND ITS GARDEN IN 1757 _To face p. 111_ ] looked dully out of that window, and thence he could see the Paris of the kings. This place stretched back beyond the origins of religion into the roots of Rome; thirteen full hundred years of monarchy had sat therein. The huge pile of the Louvre, stretching out into the morning, was the story of Henry IV, of the Medicean woman before him, and of the Valois. The turrets upon the more distant island were the roofs of St. Louis. Eudes, the son of Robert, the founder of all the royal line, had beaten the barbarian off just where the slate pinnacles of the Châtelet pierced the sky half a mile away. Behind all these visible things were the ghosts of Clovis and of Charlemagne. He turned to go. He went back through the palace to the western gardens, where the sound of the firing upon the eastern front was deadened by the mass of the palace between. His wife and his children were with him, and a few men of the guard. He crossed between the regular trees--his little boy, his heir, kicking the fallen leaves before him with his foot--and entering the riding-school, Louis took refuge with the parliament.