The crowd had broken
the gate, pressed into the court, and was surging in great masses
toward the palace doors. Here and there torches threw their glare
over these masses, disclosing men with angry gestures, and women
with streaming hair, swinging their arms savagely, and seeming like
a picture of hell, not to be surpassed in horror even by the
phantasms of Dante. Women changed to furies and bacchanalians,
roaring and shouting in their murderous desires; men, like blood-
thirsty tigers, preparing to spring upon their prey, and give it the
death-stroke; swinging pikes and guns, which gleamed horribly in the
glare of the torches; arms and fists bearing threatening daggers and
knives! All this was pressing on upon the palace--all these clinched
fists would soon be engaged in hammering upon the walls which
separated the king and queen from the people--the executioner from
his victim!
All at once there rang out a fearful, thundering cry, which made the
windows rattle, and called forth a terrible echo above in the
deserted hall; for through all these shrieks and howls, there
resounded now a piercing cry, such as only the greatest pain or the
most instant need can extort from human lips.
"That was a death-cry," whispered Madame de Campan, trembling, and
drawing back from the window.
Pages:
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323