_St. Just._--Up to the Tribune--speed--your life--our power All hang upon a moment. Art thou dumb? _Tallien_ (_continuing_.) The evil spirit who serv'd abandons him, And I denounce him as the mortal foe Of every man in France who would be free-- Impeach him as a traitor to the State In league with Henriot, Couthon and St. Just. To overawe by force and crush the Assembly! I appeal for proof to those who plotted with him, But now repentant have abjur'd his cause. I move that he be instantly arrested With Henriot and all accomplices. _Robes._ (_to St. Just_.) See how they rise like fiends and point the hand Of bitterest hatred at your head and mine, Our veriest bloodhounds turn and strive to rend us. (_he rushes towards the Tribune, amid loud cries of "Down with the tyrant!"_) _Robes._--Hear me, ye members of the Mountain--hear me, Cordeliers, who have prais'd and cheer'd me on-- Ye Girondists, give even your foes a hearing-- Ye members of the Plain, who moderate The fury of contending factions--hear me For all I have done or have designed to do, I justify myself--and I appeal To God--and---- (_he pauses choked with rage_.) _Tallien._--Danton's blood is strangling him. Consummate hypocrite!--darest thou use Thy Maker's name to sanctify thy crimes, Thou lover of Religion! Saintly being! The executioner! thou prayerless atheist! To thy high priest. The scaffold is thy temple-- The block thy altar--murder is thy God. And could it come to this? Oh, France! Oh, France! Was it for this that Louis Capet died? For this was it we swore eternal hatred To kings and nobles--pour'd our armies forth-- Crush'd banded despots and confirmed our rights? And have we bled, endur'd and toil'd, that now Our triumph should be to disgrace ourselves And bend in worship to a man whose deeds Have written demon on his very brow? What! style Dictator--clothe with regal honors And more than regal power this Robespierre, So steep'd in guilt--so bath'd in human blood! It may not be--France is at last awake From this long dreary dream of shame and sorrow, And may her sons in renovated strength Shake off the lethargy that drew it on! Spirits of Earth's _true_ heroes!--if ye see us From the calm sunshine of your blest abodes, Look with approval on me in this hour! (_turning to the statue of Brutus_.) Thee, I invoke!--Shade of the virtuous Brutus! Like thee, I swear, should man refuse me justice I draw this poignard for the tyrant's heart Or for my own. Tallien disdains to live The slave of Robespierre. I do not ask Nor can expect him to receive the meed Which should be his. Death cannot punish him Whose life hath well deserv'd a thousand deaths, But let us purge this plague-spot from among us, {308} And tell wide Europe by our vote this night