heard of this, and protested indignantly against the allegations
of Dr. Wetekind. He wrote to the Journal de la Montagne, which
published his declaration on the 26th of September, to the effect
that he was not mad enough to desire to live, and that his
anxiety to meet death half-way was a crowning proof of his
sanity.

He languished on in the prison of La Force until the 10th of
October, when at last he was brought to trial. He stood it
joyously, in a mood of exultation at his approaching deliverance.
He assured the court that he did not fear the guillotine, and
that all ignominy had been removed from such a death by the pure
blood of Charlotte.

They sentenced him to death, and he thanked them for the boon.

"Forgive me, sublime Charlotte," he exclaimed, "if I should find
it impossible to exhibit at the last the courage and gentleness
that were yours. I glory in your superiority, for it is right
that the adored should be above the adorer."

Yet his courage did not fail him. Far from it, indeed; if hers
had been a mood of gentle calm, his was one of ecstatic
exaltation. At five o'clock that same afternoon he stepped from
the tumbril under the gaunt shadow of the guillotine. He turned
to the people, his eyes bright, a flush on his cheeks.

"At last I am to have the happiness of dying for Charlotte," he
told them, and mounted the scaffold with the eager step of the
bridegroom on his way to the nuptial altar.