“God save the King!” cried De Rochefort.
A moment—a report—he fell, shattered to death.
A lovely girl, fourteen, is brought before the judge for refusing to wear the national cockade.
“Why do you refuse to wear it?” asks the judge.
“Because you do!” replies the child.
Her beauty, rather than justice, pleading for her, a sign was made that a wreath should be put in her hair, the emblem of liberation.
She cast it upon the ground. She died.
A man came to the Hall of Justice.
“You have slain my father, my brothers, my wife—kill me. My religion forbids me to destroy myself. In mercy, kill me.”
In mercy—they killed him.