The peasant had levelled a revolver over the shoulder of the man in front of him. Fenton, perceiving the move, had torn a path through the press toward the assassin. His hands had closed almost on the peasant's shoulder when the explosion broke the silence.
"Too late! My God, to have him within my reach and not stop him," groaned Fenton, stunned with the catastrophe that had occurred before his very eyes.
He reeled blindly in the rush of the enraged mob and was buffeted here and there. The gun-man had apparently been surrounded by accomplices and friends, for the vengeance-seeking mob was held back and hampered in its pursuit of the daring peasant. In the darkness and confusion the assassin disappeared, swallowed up in the agitated sea of humanity. Two days later he was given up and summarily shot; but, having no foreknowledge of this, the crowd, balked of their prey and frantic with anxiety for the wounded monarch, descended to depths of vengeful, berserk fury that could vent itself only in indiscriminate conflict. Friend fought friend, blows were struck with savage hate, blood flowed freely.
Fenton found himself propelled out of the now almost bestial crowd to a side street where comparative calm reigned. Monsieur Dubois, guessing how near to the point of total collapse his companion was, hurried Fenton to the nearest open shop and there procured a brimming beaker of strong liquor. After drinking the restorative Fenton felt a measure of his strength return.
"Another moment and Monsieur Fenton would have been under the feet of the mob," said the Frenchman. "They are wild for blood back there! Hearken to their cries! If the King dies, not an Austrian will be left alive in this city by break of day."
"If he dies!" echoed Fenton in an agony of remorse. "To think that I arrived just too late. If he dies I shall feel as guilty as the wretch who fired the shot!"
"He cannot—he must not die!" cried Dubois. "Ironia needs the strong hand of her King now. God will not take him away when he has but placed his hand to the plough."
*****
Back in the palace two physicians were bending over the prostrate figure of the wounded King with significant silence.
"He still lives," said one finally, "but——"