The good King, the loving father, had seen his dear ones for the last time on earth. To save them from another such trial, he nobly resolved to deprive himself of the sad consolation of pressing them once more to his heart, and went to his execution without a last farewell. His last words, spoken from the scaffold to the people, were: “I die innocent of all the crimes of which I am accused. I forgive all those who are the cause of my death, and pray God that the blood you are about to shed may assure the happiness of France. And you, unhappy people....” The rest was drowned in the roll of drums. His noble head fell—the head of a martyr, the head of one of the best and most merciful kings who ever ruled in France.[16] Chapter IV Separation from his Mother After the sad parting, the Queen had scarcely strength enough left to undress her children, and as soon as they were asleep she flung herself, dressed, upon her bed, where she passed the night shivering with cold and trembling with apprehension. The Princess and Madame Élisabeth slept in the same room on a mattress. The next morning the royal family arose before daybreak, waiting for a last sight of him whom, alas! they were never to see again. In all quarters of Paris the drums were beating, and the noise penetrated even into the Tower. At a quarter-past six the door opened, and some one came in to get a book, which was wanted for the mass about to be read to the King. The anxious women regarded this trifling occurrence as a hopeful sign, and expected a speedy summons to the promised interview. But they were soon undeceived. Each moment seemed an hour, and still the time slipped by without bringing the fulfilment of their last sorrowful hope. Suddenly a louder roll of drums announced the moment of the King’s departure. No words can describe the scene that followed. The heart-broken women, with tears and sobs, made fruitless attempts to excite the compassion of their pitiless jailers. The little Prince sprang from his mother’s arms, and, beside himself with grief and terror, ran from one to another of the guards, clasping their knees, pressing their hands, and crying wildly: “Let me go, messieurs! Let me go!” “Where do you wish to go?” they asked him. “To my father! I will speak to the people—I will beg them not to kill my papa! In the name of God, messieurs, let me go!” The guards were deaf to his childish appeals; fear for their own heads compelled them to be, but history does not tell us that they were inhuman enough to jeer at the child or make sport of his innocent prayer for his father’s life. Even harder hearts must have been touched by the sight of such sorrow.