something had been done since, but why not make a good end of it?
Mirabeau, yes, he had done something, but the work had grown too large
for him. He had died in good time before the people had become tired of
him. France was for the people, and there must be death for all who
stood in the people's way, and a quick death, too.

"Blood must run more freely, there will be no good end without that," he
said; "the blood of all aristocrats, no matter what they promise, what
they pretend. From the beginning they were liars. France has no use for
them save to make carrion of."

"And whose power is sufficient for all this?" Barrington asked.

"To-day, no one's. To-morrow;--who shall say? Things go forward quickly
at times. A sudden wave might even raise me to power."

"Then the good ending," said Barrington.

The man caught no irony, he only heard the flattery.

"Then the blood flowing," he laughed; "so, as full in color and as
freely spilt," and he jerked the remains of the wine in his glass across
the room, staining the opposite wall.

"And if not at your word, perhaps at that of Monsieur de Lafayette,
Sieur Motier," Barrington suggested. He wanted the man to talk about the
Marquis.

"He is an aristocrat with sympathies which make no appeal to me. The
people have grown tired of him, too. I am honest, and fear no man, and I