The drive through the streets, gay with preparations for the coronation and crowded with busy people, was attended by the manifestations grown familiar. More eager way was made for Stanief than for the Emperor himself; the glances which followed him were grateful and keenly anxious. Once a girl in a passing farmer's cart rose to toss into the carriage a sheaf of wildflowers.
"Little Father of the People!" she called in the soft, guttural vernacular.
It was a title given only to sovereigns; Stanief flushed and frowned together.
"That will not do," he commented drily, leaning back in the shadow of the victoria top.
"You have permitted them to think, and they give you their verdict," Allard answered.
The carriage turned from the great square to an avenue leading toward the palace. Densely packed with people, there was a brief pause before the way could be cleared. Noting a change in the atmosphere, a chill and more nervous haste, Allard lifted his eyes to his companion.
"This carriage, and with you in the shadow, monseigneur," he observed,—"they think it is the Emperor who passes."
The reply was not made by Stanief. Straight and surely aimed, a missile hurtled from an upper window in one of the buildings and fell on the cushions beside him.
"For peace and freedom!" shrieked a man, leaning from the window in half-insane excitement and waving his arms above his head. "No Adrian—for the Emperor Feodor!"
The crowd grew white with upturned faces; then, comprehending, broke into tumult and panic. Screaming, frantic, one and all turned to fly from the vicinity of the carriage. Allard snatched the bomb from the seat and rose to fling it from him, but even as he checked himself, Stanief seized his arm.