of men in high excitation. He clasped his hands convulsively, he stirred not, he scarcely breathed! Footsteps were rapidly approaching, traversing the intricate passages of the underground portion of the prison. A ray of light shot through the keyhole of his dungeon door. “Merciful Providence!” The broadest, brightest sunbeam he had ever gazed upon had not a thousandth part the glory of that little ray. The bolts flew!—the lock!—the hand of liberty swung, light as a feather, the massive door back upon its hinges—The vision of Monsieur le Croix was drowned in a flood of light from the torches of his liberators.—He could scarcely distinguish the figure of Julian, who, rushing forward and clasping his almost insensible master in his arms, exclaimed, or rather shrieked,—
“’Tis down!—The Bastile is down!!”
Manning and Smithson, Printers, 4, London-House-Yard, St. Paul’s.
