A woman, who had fought bravely in the earlier and fairer time of the Revolution, was carried to the scaffold, though about to become a mother. She did not fear death—she pleaded for the other life.
She was laughed at—hooted—and so died.
A girl of seventeen, and much resembling Charlotte Corday, was accused of having served as an artillerist in the trenches of the forces opposed to the national forces.
“What is your name?”
“Mary; the name of the mother of the God for whom I am about to die.”
“Your age?”
“Seventeen; the age of Charlotte Corday.”
“How!—at seventeen, fight against your country?”
“I fought to save it.”