"I will do," said Allard, "anything you want."
If the uproar had been great at the attack, it trebled as the furious crowd surged back in search of the assailant. The guards were obliged to close around the Regent to shield him from the frenzied and hysterical joy of the people at his safety. The slow return to his home was one continuous ovation, almost the cheering masses prevented advance.
Long before Stanief reached his goal, Allard had arrived at the palace. No less excitement reigned there. Without need of explanation, Allard was hurried to the Emperor, questioned and congratulated on every side.
He met Adrian in the hall, and at sight of his messenger, blackened with smoke, hatless, still pale with the strain of those perilous moments, the Emperor sprang forward and caught his arm.
"Feodor?" he cried fiercely, his voice ringing through the lofty corridors. "Speak, speak; where is Feodor?"
"Sire, he has returned to madame the Grand Duchess."
"Safe? You are not deceiving me, he is safe?"
"He is unhurt; he destroyed the bomb before it exploded," Allard explained incoherently. "His hands are cut, no more."
Adrian dropped the other's arm and drew back; for hours Allard felt the bruise of that feverish grasp.
"To madame," he repeated.