Three executioners’ attendants came forward, and wished to undress him at the foot of the scaffold.
He waved them back, took off his coat, cravat, and turned down his shirt.
The executioners again approached him.
“What do you seek to do?” he asked, angrily.
“Bind you!” they said, seizing his hands.
“Bind me!” the King cried, all the passion of centuries of petted and idolized royal blood rising in the veins which were now in a few moments to be empty. “Never!—I will not permit it. Do your work, but you shall not bind me—do not even dream of such a thing!”
This man, the descendant of hundreds of kings, could not, even after recommending his soul to God, uncrown himself. The Convention might call him a citizen—but he had, as all kings must, lived in the belief of that half-divinity which is still in some places supposed to surround a king.
The executioners had their duty to do. Here was a man to be guillotined. Men who were guillotined had to be bound. Then they must bind their man.
They again approached.
A veritable struggle was about to commence at the foot of the scaffold.