"Not into the people, John," he ordered sharply. "Better keep it here than that."
"Go, you!" Allard implored, turning the smoking object in his hands for examination. "Go, monseigneur!"
Above the uproar of the fighting, shrieking mob rose the agonized cry of the man at the window as he saw the Regent's face:
"You! You! The fuse, pull the fuse!"
"Fuse?" echoed Allard, catching at a small hanging thread of cotton. "Monseigneur, go, go! I can handle this—"
The cotton broke off short; a steady hissing warned them that it still burned inside.
"Give it here," Stanief commanded collectedly. "Get your penknife."
The two men bent above the oval, gray messenger of hate and death. Around them raged indescribable disorder; the very coachman and footmen had fled from the carriage.
"If you would go!" Allard panted, his voice tense.
"Bah," said Stanief, and forced the bomb from him.