A blasphemy had been uttered! by a prelate of the Orthodox Church in the oldest cathedral of Moscow, in the presence of Tsar and people; yet the earth had not opened to engulph the blasphemer; no fire from heaven had fallen upon him!
Everything remained calm; above the slanting sheaves of sunbeams, above the azure clouds of incense, the face of Christ in the centre of the dome seemed to ascend to the skies, inaccessible, remote.
The Tsarevitch glanced at his father. He was quite calm and listened with pious attention.
Encouraged by this attention, Feofan concluded solemnly:
“Rejoice, O Russia, be proud and thankful! Let all thy cities and frontiers be glad, for on thy horizon, like a radiant sun, rises the flame of the Tsar’s son, the three-year-old infant, Peter Petrovitch, the heir designed by God. May he live happily, may he reign prosperously, Peter the Second, Peter the Blessed! Amen.”
When Feofan had ended, a voice, weak but clear, came out of the crowd:—
“Lord, save, keep and bestow thy grace upon the only true heir to the Russian throne, the most pious Tsarevitch, Alexis Petrovitch.”
The crowd shuddered as one man, and remained motionless, terror-struck. Then it began to grow noisy and restless.
“Who is it? who is it?”
“A madman, no doubt!”