"Drink a toast to the G.o.ddess!" cried the revelers, offering the winecup to the victims.

"Curses on them!" said others. "Death is too good for vile aristocrats."

"Tra-la-la-la!" sang drunken wenches, "La Guillotine will soon hold ye in her sharp embrace--"

The blasphemy of burlesquing a far greater Scene of Sorrows occurred to drunken Carmagnole dancers. The notion was applauded, carried into effect at once.

A tall sansculotte reached over betwixt the guards and placed a Crown of Thorns on the girl's brow. Another dashed a cupful of vinegar in the girl's face.

"Can't you see she's helpless?" said a centurion, pointing to her pinioned arms. He yanked off the chaplet and threw it back in the crowd. They roared with merriment at the farce....

But, in the stable yard of the Northern cavalry, Danton from a horseblock was addressing the fiery spirits who knew and loved him.

"Will you dare with Danton?" he cried. "Will you risk Death to open a Nation's eyes?"

The head Cavalryman embraced the Thunderer and kissed him on both cheeks.

"We are with you to the last man--to the last ounce of our strength to save this girl and boy!" he said while the others cheered.

Danton had got a gallant white mount, the Captain was on a n.o.ble black Arabian charger; the others had leaped astride their ever ready army steeds--the ride with the reprieve was in full course!

CHAPTER XXVII

THE FAREWELL

Louise, guided by her faithful attendant Pierre, had left the courtroom directly after the condemnation. Leaning heavily upon him, the blind girl had staggered out, or pressed by the awful knowledge that her sister Henriette was doomed to die. "Oh, take me to her!" she had cried.

There was only one thing to do: to follow the route of the death tumbrils, in the slight hope of overtaking her. The crippled Pierre could not walk fast, and the steps of Louise had to be most carefully directed. Now and again Pierre could see the death carts a long way ahead, he tried to hasten their steps, but presently the transports of death were out of sight again.

A traffic tie-up and street delay that halted the tumbrils just beyond the scene of the baccha.n.a.lian Feast of Reason, gave them their opportunity. Here the revelers had burlesqued Henriette as the "Woman of Sorrows," and here the guardsman had thrown off the chaplet and rebuked the crowd.

During the halt Pierre and his companion came up with what speed they could; he led Louise to the back of the death cart, and placed her hands on the bound and standing figure of poor little Henriette.

"It is your sister!" said Pierre softly.

Gently the blind girl's fingers traveled up to the wet face of her little foster-mother, now bending towards her. With a handkerchief Louise tenderly wiped it, her fingers gave loving little pats of the heaving neck and bosom, she kissed the stained cheeks, and then the girls' lips met--met long and pa.s.sionately! No words were spoken, none was needed for a reunion that was also a farewell.

The cart moved. The loving lips were parted. Now one might see Louise's imploring arms still held out toward the sad receding little figure.

It was indeed a busy day for the executioners. Batches of men and women preceded Henriette and Maurice. Two of these were beautiful young girls who, in default of priest, were saying the last offices of the Church as they knelt on the bare ground. In tragic glory Faith's clear credo rang out: "_I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live!_"

Their lovely heads dropped in the basket as the knitting women clicked their needles and cried "Two!" Henriette, with a physical retch at the sight, fell back half-fainting on Maurice. Roughly the soldiers yanked them asunder.

"Citizeness, your time is come!" said one of the brawny butchers. He half led, half supported her up the steps of the guillotine....

The Chief executioner turned Henriette about, inspecting her fine points as an equine connoisseur would inspect a filly. He gloated over her not yet budded form, the swan-like neck, unlined piquant features, the golden head-curls that fell in ringlets.

"A pretty one--eh, Jean?" he commented to his a.s.sistant.

Between the two, they had strapped her unresisting on the board. They lowered it below the razor edge of the knife, so that she lay p.r.o.ne with her neck directly underneath. The finale was to fasten on the neck piece, a round-holed cross board which prevented the head from drawing back....

Alas! what avails it that five miles away--in the heart of the city--the hoofbeats of a company of cavalry resound rhythmically over the flagstones?

Danton and his Northern riders are straining every nerve, galloping their steeds furiously--eyes fixed on the seeming-impossible goal.

Rather are they modern centaurs, each rider and steed a unit of undivisible will and energy: Danton a furious resistless hippogriff, fire-striking, fire-exhaling, in unity with his white charger; the lean-jawed, sternly set Captain on his lean galloping Arabian, cyclonic, onrushing like some Spectral Horseman; the rest riding like the Valkyries--as it were, twixt Heaven and earth--their galloping beats scorning the ground as they rush by to the hissing of the cleaved and angry winds.

But what avails it?...

Even on the straightway 'twere a quarter-hour ride to the outer-suburban locality where the guillotine does its dreadful work. Ancient Paris with its tortuous streets delays them. Ahead, are Jacques-Forget-Not--Jacobin troops--barriers--gates.

Poor little Henriette's golden head!

Is it not fated to drop in the basket long, long before they can appear?

CHAPTER XXVIII

MANIAC WITH A DAGGER

A sansculotte soldier, less brutal than his fellows, had allowed Louise and Pierre to approach one side of the scaffold. They were more privileged than the frantic Picard, who could not get near his young master and mistress. Revolutionary infantry guarded every side of the public square. Intermingled among them were the favored hoodlums of the Jacobin party, execrating the victims and howling with glee whenever the dread axe fell.

Among the riff-raff, Mere Frochard and her precious son Jacques Frochard were conspicuous. For no particular reason they were gloating over the cutting-off of aristocrats, whilst indulging in rough horseplay at the expense of the friends of the condemned. Picard's quaint look of helpless sympathy excited ready mirth.

"Sniveling over those good-for-nothings, eh?" La Frochard curled her heavy moustachioed lip in scorn.

"We'll find a way to make that sensitive young man feel something--"

she confided to Jacques. A moment later she had pulled over a sansculotte's bayonet, with which she executed a neat jab into Picard's anatomy.

Picard leaped in the air like a jumping jack. When he descended to earth and turned to survey the cause of his torment, he faced but an impa.s.sive trooper with weapon at parade rest and the grinning countenances of Mere and Jacques Frochard, convulsed with laughter.

Picard decided the vicinity of the guillotine was almost as dangerous for him as for his master. He edged out of range, biding the occasion for a counter-thrust....

Pierre and Louise stood on the other side of the scaffold, the heavy structure of which quite hid the ruffian Frochards and their horseplay with Picard.

Henriette had been borne up the steps of the guillotine a few moments before Pierre and Louise reached the scene. The cripple, terribly excited, was telling Louise of Henriette's being strapped to the board and shoved toward the knife vent.

"That big murderer is going to kill her!" hissed Pierre.

Louise's blind features became contorted with agony. Large tear drops fell from her eyes. Both arms were extended toward her sister above, then clawed convulsively at Pierre.