The roll of the drum, on one side or the other far and near, now was heard; hurried steps passed; the click of arms could be distinguished; and soon horses, heavily mounted, were heard beating along the street.
A heavier sound—cannon, and strongly-built tumbrils or wagons were heard, taking up their position in the court-yard of the prison, and about its entrance.
The King, true to the last to his marvellous character—which his friends describe, as one not to be swayed by passion, which his enemies analyzed to be one of callousness and incapability of feeling, not only with regard to others, but even for himself—the King commented on these sounds, not as though they affected him and his life, but as though they were an agreeable puzzle he was putting together.
“’Tis probably the National Guard assembling,” he said, in a half curious voice, to the still praying Abbé, when the first roll of the drum swept through the cold morning air.
A few moments passed, and the trampling of horses’ hoofs at the foot of the tower attracted his attention. Then followed the voices of officers, giving military directions.
“They are come,” he said.
He spoke without impatience or fear, after the manner of a friend quietly waiting for a friend, and at last hearing the amicable step upon the stair.
And now the King’s last torture—not his execution, for that was in mercy extended to him—commenced.
Through two long hours was this poor man tortured by a refinement of cruelty for which there can be found no extenuation, to which no parallel can be discovered.
Through these two hours came frequent summonses at the door. Upon each occasion the King rose, ready. Upon each occasion some poor, petty excuse was made. He himself (the King) opened the door, answered the wretch and coward who tortured him, bowed civilly when he learnt his presence was not required, and closing the door, waited until a fresh summons beat upon his heart.