I was carried back in the rush, and found myself breathless, back against a wall. Three figures cleared themselves from the ruck, and I fought my way to them.
“Well done, Mishka,—for it was thou!” exclaimed Loris. “How was it done?”
“Pouf, it was but a toy,” grunted Mishka. “I brought it in my pocket,—on chance; such things are useful at times. If it had been a real bomb, we should all have entered Heaven—or hell—together.”
“Get to the steps; they are coming back,” cried Loris.
He was right. A section of the crowd turned, and made an ugly rush, only to halt in confusion as they found themselves confronted by levelled revolvers, held by four men in uniform.
“Be off,” Loris shouted. There was no anger in his voice; he spoke as sternly and dictatorially as one speaks to a fractious child. “You have done enough mischief for one night,—and the punishment is still to come. Back, I say! Go home, and see that you do no more evil.”
He strode towards them, and they gave back before him.
“Jèsu! It is the archangel Michel! Ah, but we have sinned, indeed,” a woman wailed hysterically. The cry was caught up, echoed in awestruck murmurs; and the whole lot of them quickened their flight, as we marched on their heels.
“A compliment to you, my Mishka,—you and your toy bomb; somewhat more like Jove and his thunderbolts though, eh?” said Loris, and I saw his eyes gleam for a moment with a flash of the quaint humor that cropped up in him at the most unexpected moments. “It was a good thought, for it achieved much, at very little cost. But these poor fools! When will they learn wisdom?”
We stood still, waiting for a brief space, to see if the mob would return. But the noise receded,—the worst was over; though the baleful glare of the burning houses waxed ever brighter, revealing all the horrors of that stricken town.