There is a flutter in the Convention, a moment's hesitation. But the question is put to the vote, and the speech is _not_ to be printed. A small matter, in truth--printing or not printing. . . . Does the Destiny of France hang on so small a peg? It is a small matter; and yet how full of portent! Like the breath of mutiny blowing across a ship. But nothing more occurs just then. Robespierre, lofty in his scorn, puts the notes of his speech into his pocket. He does not condescend to argue. He, the master of France, will not deign to bandy words with his slaves. And he stalks out of the Hall surrounded by his friends. There _has_ been a breath of mutiny; but his is still the iron heel, powerful enough to crush a raging revolt. His withdrawal--proud, silent, menacing--is in keeping with his character and with the pose which he has assumed of late. But he is still the Chosen of the People; and the multitude is there, thronging the streets of Paris--there, to avenge the insult put upon their idol by a pack of slinking wolves. §3 And now the picture becomes still more poignant. It is painted in colours more vivid, more glowing than before. The morning breaks on the 9th Thermidor, and again the Hall of the Convention is crowded to the roof, with Tallien and his friends, in a close phalanx, early at their post! Tallien is there, pale, resolute, the fire of his hatred kept up by anxiety for his beloved. The night before, at the corner of a dark street, a surreptitious hand slipped a scrap of paper into the pocket of his coat. It was a message written by Theresia in prison, and written with her own blood. How it ever came into his pocket Tallien never knew; but the few impassioned, agonised words seared his very soul and whipped up his courage: "The Commissary of Police has just left me," Theresia wrote. "He came to tell me that to-morrow I must appear before the tribunal. This means the guillotine. And I, who thought that you were a _man_ . . .!" Not only is his own head in peril, not only that of his friends; but the life of the woman whom he worships hangs now upon the thread of his own audacity and of his courage. St. Just on this occasion is the first to mount the tribune; and Robespierre, the very incarnation of lustful and deadly Vengeance, stands silently by. He has spent the afternoon and evening with his friends at the Jacobins Club, where deafening applause greeted his every word, and wild fury raged against his enemies. It is then to be a fight to the finish! To your tents, O Israel!