any reward. One man, found plundering,
was shot at the gates of the palace.
Others, caught pilfering, were stripped and
chastised. Two workmen, who found in
one of the royal apartments a pocket-book
containing a million of francs, delivered it
up without even giving in their names.
The universal cry was, "We come here to
conquer; not to rob!"

Even during the rage of conflict, the
people behaved with calm magnanimity.
Wounded men were instantly succoured,
and carried off on shutters, or rude litters,
to the nearest surgeon. If a man fell
dead, his comrades sprang upon his body,
as if " upon an altar consecrated to freedom."
The scene before the Hôtel Dieu
was very affecting. The crowd wept and
swore vengeance, as the litters passed. One
of the pupils of the Polytechnique being
killed in the Tuileries, his body was placed
respectfully on the throne itself, and covered
with crape. It remained there until a
brother came and claimed it.

The working men guarded the Tuileries
all that day, in strange masquerade. Here,
came a young blouse wearing a cuirassier's
helmet, and carrying an inlaid halberd of
the time of Francis the First. There,
stood as sentinel a negro armed with a
sapeur's broad sword and a cavalry
carbine. On the Place du Carrousel two
fellows especially attracted attention. One
was a labourer, bare-foot, in a canvas
jacket and the feathered cocked hat of a
marshal of France; the other wore one
sleeve cut from the red coat of a slain
Swiss and on the opposite hand an
archbishop's glove, while over his shoulder he
bore a lancer's weapon.

Foreigners of many nations, English, Germans,
Russians, Greeks, Italians, Spaniards,
and Portuguese, lent a willing hand in
this insurrection, and fought bravely.
Mr. Lind, an Englishman, enrolled himself
voluntarily as a National Guard, braved all
the fighting, and, after the victory, mounted
guard for forty-eight consecutive hours
without once quitting his post. Mr.
Bradley, an English physician, during the
thick of the fight went from street to street
and house to house to attend the wounded.
An English engraver and typefounder, long
established in Paris, cast all his metal into
bullets for the National Guard. Another
Englishman, a printer, fought on the boulevards
as a tirailleur, and procured muskets
for his men. At the attack on the Royal
Guards entrenched in the Rue de Nicaire
and St. Honoré, he headed the storming
party. Some of the Guards surrendered;
but, firing still continuing from an upper
storey, the people rushed in and slew every
soldier there. Two of the English printer's
men were killed.

The very children fought. A boy of
fourteen seized the bridle of the horse
ridden by the Marquis de Chabauves,
commander of lancers. The horse, tossing
up his head, lifted the urchin from the
ground. In that position the young bulldog
blew out the officer's brains. Some of
the Polytechnique students, mere lads of ten
or twelve, crept under the muskets of the
soldiers, and then fired their pistols into
the men's bodies. One Spartan boy of less
than ten returned from a charge with two
streaming bayonet wounds in his thighs,
and still refused to cease firing. At the
attack on the Tuileries, a Polytechnique
student called through the railings to an
officer, and told him to surrender on pain
of extermination, " for liberty and force
were now in the hands of the people." The
officer refused to obey, and, moreover,
presented his pistol; which, however, missed
fire. The lad coolly thrust in his hand,
seized the officer by the throat, and putting
the point of his sword near it, said, " Your
life is in my power. I could cut your
throat, but I will not shed blood." The
officer, touched by this generosity, tore the
decoration from his own breast, and
presenting it, said, " Brave young man! No
man can be more worthy than you to receive
this; take it from my hand. Your name?"
"Pupil of the Polytechnique School,"
replied the young hero, and immediately
rejoined his companions. In one of the
skirmishes with the Royal Guard, a piece
of artillery had been left in an open space
swept by musketry fire. A Polytechnique
lad ran up to the piece and clasped it with
both hands, crying, "It is ours! I will
keep it. I will die rather than surrender
it." His comrades behind shouted, "You
will be killed. Come back." But the boy
held the cannon through all the fire, until
the citizens reached the piece, and saved him.
M. Giovanni di Aceto, an Italian youth, only
seventeen, shot an officer of the Royal Guard,
who was about to run through the body an
ex-sergeant of the Seventeenth Light
Infantry. This lad, at the head of thirty
citizens, fought gallantly at the Hôtel de
Ville, the Port St. Martin, the Rue St.
Honoré, and the Tuileries.

After the victory, the National Guard
carried in triumph to the Bourse a very
handsome girl of seventeen, who had