During this episode no man moved, whether among soldiers or civilians—not a hand was put forth to defend the Czar. The significance of this fact, which did not escape Paul’s notice, served only to increase his fury.
“You would see your Czar murdered?” he cried, turning upon his regiment. “Lieutenant Voronetz, arrest this man.”
A young officer, motioning four men to follow him, approached Wilfrid.
“You are my prisoner,” he said, with a look that entreated the captive to give as little trouble as possible.
For one moment Wilfrid hesitated. The wild blood of his viking ancestors danced in his veins, urging him to defy his enemies. He was convinced now that in any case death would be his lot; then why not die heroically, with his trenchant blade whirling round his head?
“Give me his sword,” cried Paul, who had taken a fancy to the weapon. He was a collector of swords, and kept a little store of them in his bedroom.
“This sword,” said Wilfrid, drawing forth the blade, “the gift of the Prussian Queen, shall never be handled by a Muscovite barbarian.”
And ere his guards could stop him, Wilfrid snapped the blade in half, and flung the two fragments upon the snow.
“An honourable way of treating a Queen’s gift,” sneered Paul; and then, addressing the officer, he added, “To the Citadel with him. To be brought to the Red Square at the first parade to-morrow. Your life for his, if he escapes. Forward,” he cried, addressing the regiment and waving his cane.
The band struck up a march, and the grotesque Paulovski Guards, with the Czar at their head, moved onward again; and as they passed the wearied Petersburgers rose and straightened their stiffened limbs. They took care to keep at a respectful distance from Wilfrid, and to maintain silence. It was dangerous to express sympathy.