"Certainly, it is a very pretty one," he replied; "still I see nothing
to justify our coming so far to behold it."

"Wait a little while and you will not say so."

The first group of graves before which we stopped, was that of some
victims of the reign of terror--poor slaughtered men and women. The
grass was growing pleasantly above them, and all was calm, and sunny,
and beautiful around. Perhaps the sun shone as pleasantly when, on the
"_Place de la Concorde_," they walked up the steps of the scaffold to
die--for _Liberty_! Oh shame! One--two--three--four--there were eight
graves we counted, all victims of the reign of terror. For a moment I
forgot where I was; the graves were now at my feet, but I saw the poor
victims go slowly up to their horrible death. The faces of grinning,
scowling devils, male and female, were before me, all clamoring for
blood. I could see the tiger-thirst for human flesh in every
countenance--the fierce eye--the flushed face--and yet, how still were
the winds, how cheerful the sky.

Yet, though every pure-hearted man or woman must detest the horrible
cruelties of the great revolution must shudder at the bare mention of
the names of the leaders in it, is it not an eternal law of God, that
oppression at last produces madness? Have not tyrants this fact always
to dream over--_though you_ may escape the vengeance of outraged
humanity, yet your children, your children's children shall pay the
terrible penalty. Louis XVI. was a gentle king; unwise, but never at
heart tyrannical; but alas! he answered not merely for his own misdeeds,
but for the misdeeds, the tyrannical conduct of centuries of kingcraft.
It was an inevitable consequence--and it will ever be so. But I am
moralizing.