Loathsome, bareheaded harlots mingled with bands of prowlers or ran through the crowd, howling obscene refrains.

Bandits stood in groups chatting and quarrelling about the more or less glorious manner in which certain famous _guillotines_ had died.

Among these was one with respect to whom they all agreed, and of whom they spoke as of a great captain, a hero whose marvellous courage was deserving of immortality.

Then, as one passed along, one caught snatches of horrible phrases, particulars about the instrument of death, ignoble boasts, and filthy jests reeking with blood.

And over and above all else there was bestial fever, a lust for death which made this multitude delirious, an eagerness to see life flow forth fresh and ruddy beneath the knife, so that as it coursed over the soil they might dip their feet in it.