He did indeed have the luck to have such a peaceful opponent. Robespierre took his hand off of his sword. His expression only changed slightly--the lightest lift of his eyebrows. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and cool. It would be hard to imagine that he was as committed to this murder as he was, or especially the legacy of murder that would be so attached to his name.

"I cannot die, yet. It is not my time," he knew it better than most, after all, "So if it sates our hosts, it is your blood that I must shed."

Robespierre paused, looking to the stands. He lingered on it for a moment, evaluating just who was there. But when his eyes fell on one of the few familiar faces in the crowd, he turned back to the matter at hand. "The Psalms will carry you to God, and deliver a swift and quiet death."