The naturally warm and candid eloquence of the King did not fail in its effect. Sance was almost ready to give way, and if it had depended only on him they might have been allowed to proceed. But Drouet had no idea of allowing his prey to escape him now; he became still more violent, and declared that his own head might answer for it if the King were not sent back to Paris. At this moment, too, an incident occurred in the street which decided the fate of the royal fugitives. A conflict arose between the officers who were on the King’s side and the National Guard. M. de Goguelat crowded his horse against the leader of the Guard and drew his sword; the Major discharged his pistol at Goguelat and wounded him in the shoulder, causing his horse to rear and throw him. M. de Choiseul’s hussars looked on, but made no motion to interfere, and it was evident that they could no longer be depended on. All hope was now lost; the King’s only chance lay in the possible arrival of Bouillé and his soldiers, but Bouillé did not appear. Instead, fresh reënforcements of the National Guard came pouring in from all sides to assist their comrades, and the ever increasing throngs overflowed the little town—a town destined from this night to claim a melancholy place in history. Between six and seven o’clock in the morning, two messengers arrived from the National Assembly, M. de Romeuf, Lafayette’s aide-de-camp, and Bayon, an officer of the National Guard in Paris. They brought a decree of the Assembly, ordering the King to be taken back to his capital wherever he might be found. Bayon entered alone. Fatigue and excitement had given a still darker cast to his naturally gloomy expression. With tangled hair and disordered attire, he approached the King, and stammered confusedly: “Sire, you are aware ... all Paris is in arms ... our wives and children even now perhaps are being massacred ... you will not go any farther away.... Sire, the welfare of the country ... yes, Sire ... our wives and children....” At these words, the Queen with a sudden movement seized his hands and, pointing to the sleeping children on the bed, exclaimed: “Sir, am I not also a mother!” “What is your business here?” demanded the King. “Sire, a decree of the Assembly.” “Where is it?” “My comrade has it.” With these words, he opened the door and disclosed M. de Romeuf, who, overcome with emotion, was leaning against a window in the front room. His face was wet with tears. He approached with downcast eyes, holding out a paper, which the King took from him and glanced through rapidly. “Now,” he said, “there is no longer a King in France!” The children had awakened by this time, and the little Dauphin became the object of special interest. Some admired his beauty, and others asked him questions about his journey and the Tuileries, to which the sleepy child scarcely responded, but only gazed at his mother. “Ah, Charles,” his sister whispered to him, “you were mistaken, this is no comedy!”