“Drink a toast to the Goddess!” cried the revelers, offering the winecup to the victims.
“Curses on them!” said others. “Death is too good for vile aristocrats.”
“Tra-la-la-la!” sang drunken wenches, 171 “La Guillotine will soon hold ye in her sharp embrace––”
The blasphemy of burlesquing a far greater Scene of Sorrows occurred to drunken Carmagnole dancers. The notion was applauded, carried into effect at once.
A tall sansculotte reached over betwixt the guards and placed a Crown of Thorns on the girl’s brow. Another dashed a cupful of vinegar in the girl’s face.
“Can’t you see she’s helpless?” said a centurion, pointing to her pinioned arms. He yanked off the chaplet and threw it back in the crowd. They roared with merriment at the farce....
But, in the stable yard of the Northern cavalry, Danton from a horseblock was addressing the fiery spirits who knew and loved him.
“Will you dare with Danton?” he cried. “Will you risk Death to open a Nation’s eyes?”
The head Cavalryman embraced the Thunderer and kissed him on both cheeks.
“We are with you to the last man––to the last ounce of our strength to save this girl and boy!” he said while the others cheered.