them from another:  till finally, in such extreme state of nervous excitability, Patriotism hangs them as spies of Sieur Motier; and the life and secret is choked out of them forevermore.  Forevermore, alas!  Or is a day to be looked for when these two evidently mean individuals, who are human nevertheless, will become Historical Riddles; and, like him of the Iron Mask (also a human individual, and evidently nothing more),—­have their Dissertations?  To us this only is certain, that they had a gimlet, provisions and a wooden leg; and have died there on the Lanterne, as the unluckiest fools might die.

And so the signature goes on, in a still more excited manner.  And Chaumette, for Antiquarians possess the very Paper to this hour, (Ibid. xi. 113, &c.)—­has signed himself ’in a flowing saucy hand slightly leaned;’ and Hebert, detestable Pere Duchene, as if ’an inked spider had dropped on the paper;’ Usher Maillard also has signed, and many Crosses, which cannot write.  And Paris, through its thousand avenues, is welling to the Champ-de-Mars and from it, in the utmost excitability of humour; central Fatherland’s Altar quite heaped with signing Patriots and Patriotesses; the Thirty-benches and whole internal Space crowded with onlookers, with comers and goers; one regurgitating whirlpool of men and women in their Sunday clothes.  All which a Constitutional Sieur Motier sees; and Bailly, looking into it with his long visage made still longer.  Auguring no good; perhaps Decheance and Deposition after all!  Stop it, ye Constitutional Patriots; fire itself is quenchable, yet only quenchable at first!

Stop it, truly:  but how stop it?  Have not the first Free People of the Universe a right to petition?—­Happily, if also unhappily, here is one proof of riot:  these two human individuals, hanged at the Lanterne.  Proof, O treacherous Sieur Motier?  Were they not two human individuals sent thither by thee to be hanged; to be a pretext for thy bloody Drapeau Rouge?  This question shall many a Patriot, one day, ask; and answer affirmatively, strong in Preternatural Suspicion.

Enough, towards half past seven in the evening, the mere natural eye can behold this thing:  Sieur Motier, with Municipals in scarf, with blue National Patrollotism, rank after rank, to the clang of drums; wending resolutely to the Champ-de-Mars; Mayor Bailly, with elongated visage, bearing, as in sad duty bound, the Drapeau Rouge!  Howl of angry derision rises in treble and bass from a hundred thousand throats, at the sight of Martial Law; which nevertheless waving its Red sanguinary Flag, advances there, from the Gros-Caillou Entrance; advances, drumming and waving, towards Altar of Fatherland.  Amid still wilder howls, with objurgation, obtestation; with flights of pebbles and mud, saxa et faeces; with crackle of a pistol-shot;—­finally with volley-fire of Patrollotism; levelled muskets; roll of volley on volley!  Precisely after one year and three days, our sublime Federation Field is wetted, in this manner, with French blood.