With an effort Paul dragged one or two heavy pieces of furniture across the room, in the form of a rough barricade. He pointed to the hearthrug where Maggie was to stand.
“Ready!” he shouted to Steinmetz. “Come!”
The German ran in, and Paul closed the barricade.
The rabble poured in at the open door, screaming and shouting. Bloodstained, ragged, wild with the madness of murder, they crowded to the barricade. There they stopped, gazing stupidly at Paul.
“The Moscow Doctor—the Moscow Doctor!” passed from lip to lip. It was the women who shouted it the loudest. Like the wind through a forest it swept out of the room and down the stairs. Those crowding up pushed on and uttered the words as they came. The room was packed with them.
“Yes!” shouted Steinmetz, at the top of his great voice, “and the prince!”
He knew the note to strike, and struck with a sure hand. The barricade was torn aside, and the people swept forward, falling on their knees, grovelling at Paul’s feet, kissing the hem of his garment, seizing his strong hands in theirs.
It was a mighty harvest. That which is sown in the people’s hearts bears a thousandfold at last.
“Get them out of the place—open the big doors,” said Paul to Steinmetz. He stood cold and grave among them.
Some of them were already sneaking toward the door—the ringleaders, the talkers from the towns—mindful of their own necks in this change of feeling.