“La Fayette, in the Hôtel de Nôailles, not far from the Château, having now finished haranguing, sits with his officers, consulting. At five o’clock the unanimous best counsel is, that a man so tossed and toiled for twenty-four hours and more, fling himself on a bed and seek some rest.... “The dull dawn of a new morning, drizzly and chill, had but broken over Versailles. Rascality is in the Grand Court.... Barricading serves not; fly fast, ye body-guards: rabid Insurrection, like the hell-bound chase, uproaring at your heels.... ‘Save the Queen!’ Tremble not, women, but haste, for, lo! another voice shouts far through the outermost door, ‘Save the Queen!’ It is brave Miomandre’s voice that shouts this second warning. He has stormed across imminent death to do it; fronts imminent death, having done it.... “Trembling maids-of-honor hastily wrap the queen, not in robes of state. She flies for her life across the _Œil-de-Bœuf_, against the main door of which, too, Insurrection batters. She is in the king’s apartment, in the king’s arms; she clasps her children amid a faithful few. The imperial-hearted bursts into mother’s tears: ‘O my friends, save me and my children’ (_O mes amis, sauvez-moi et mes enfants!_). The battering of insurrectionary axes clangs audible across the _Œil-de-Bœuf_. What an hour!... “Now, too, La Fayette, suddenly aroused, not from sleep (for his eyes had not yet closed), arrives, with passionate eloquence, with prompt military word of command. National Guards, suddenly roused by sound of trumpet and alarm drum, are all arriving. The death-melly ceases; the first sky-lambent blaze of insurrection is got damped down; it burns now, if unextinguished, yet flameless, as charred coals do, and not extinguishable. The king’s apartments are safe. Ministers, officials, and even some loyal national deputies are assembling round their Majesties. Now, too, is witnessed the touching last flicker of etiquette, which sinks not here in the Cimmerian world-wreckage without a sign! as the house cricket might still chirp in the pealing of a trump of doom. ‘Monsieur,’ said some master of ceremonies, as La Fayette, in these fearful moments, was rushing towards the inner royal apartments, ‘_Monsieur, le roi vous accorde les grandes entrees_’ (Monsieur, the king grants you the grand entries)—not finding it convenient to refuse them.