Steinmetz raised his hand and peered down into the crowd, looking for the man of eloquence, and the voice was hushed.
At this moment, however, the yelling increased, and through the door-way leading to the servants’ quarters came a stream of men—bloodstained, ragged, torn. They were waving arms and implements above their heads.
“Down with the aristocrats! kill them—kill them!” they were shrieking.
A little volley of fire-arms further excited them. But vodka is not a good thing to shoot upon, and Paul stood untouched, waiting, as he had said, until they were tired of shouting.
“Now,” yelled Steinmetz to him in English, “we must go. We can make a stand at the head of the stairs, then the door-way, then——” He shrugged his shoulders. “Then—the end,” he added, as they moved up the stairs step by step, backward. “My very good friend,” he went on, “at the door we must begin to shoot them down. It is our only chance. It is, moreover, our duty toward the ladies.”
“There is one alternative,” answered Paul.
“The Moscow Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“They may turn,” said Paul; “they are just in that humor.”
The new-comers were the most dangerous. They were forcing their way to the front. There was no doubt that, as soon as they could penetrate the densely packed mob, they would charge up the stairs, even in face of a heavy fire. The reek of vodka was borne up in the heated atmosphere, mingled with the nauseating odor of filthy clothing.