It was impossible to reach his Majesty or to do
aught for him, and Calvert could only look on from afar. There was no
place in that fearful scene for an American. The French at last knew
their power, had at last got the bit between their teeth, and no outside
interference could stay that fearful pace. The mob surged about Calvert,
increased every instant by fresh additions from the lowest quarters of
the city, reinforced by deputations from the provinces. The firing from
without grew quicker and quicker; from within fainter and less frequent,
as those devoted servants of the King were shot down, until finally
there was silence within the palace and the scarlet of the Swiss could
be seen scattered and fleeing in every direction as the armed and
triumphant mob pushed its way forward. Looking into the mad whirlwind of
faces, Calvert saw the great, disfigured head, the massive shoulders of
Danton, (but just come, on that fearful morning, to the fulness of his
infamy and power), followed by Bertrand, battling his way beside his
great leader.
"And 'twas for this I saved him!" said Calvert to himself.
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