But though the figure was far distant Wilfrid, without having recourse to the lorgnette, could tell that it was not Little Paul. Who was it that thus assumed to himself all the honours of Czardom?
Wilfrid’s feeling was one of surprise merely; that of Baranoff’s was absolute, overwhelming dismay.
First on the list of conspirators to be denounced by him came the hateful name of the imprisoned Alexander, and lo! it was Alexander himself that faced him and put forth his hand for the goblet!
“None but the Czar can drink from this cup,” said Baranoff huskily, drawing back a pace or two.
“True, and the Czar is before you,” returned the other.
“Yesterday it was Paul.”
“And to-day it is Alexander. To-morrow it may be—who can tell? Is Fortune ever constant?”
Mechanically Baranoff surrendered the goblet to Alexander, who, turning to the now silent people, cried with a loud voice—
“To the health of the Russian nation!”