"Did your highness not command it, then?" Ducardi continued.
"I? No," Othomar repeated.
The governor bowed low; the general's loud, gruff voice unnerved him.
"I thought," said the governor, urbanely, but mumbling, stammering—and he tried to be at once humble before the prince and haughty towards the general—"I thought it would be well to safeguard your highness against possible ... possible unpleasantness, especially as your highness desired ... desired that the platform should remain open to the public...."
Othomar looked out as Ducardi had done; he saw the infantry drawn up and the crowd behind; angry, murmuring, drab, threatening:
"But, excellency," he said, aloud, to the governor, "in that case it would have been better to shut off the platform entirely. This is quite wrong. The police would have been sufficient to prevent any crowding."
"I was afraid of ... of unpleasantness, highness. Troubled times, the people so discontented," he whispered, fearing to be overheard by the equerries.
"Quite wrong," repeated Othomar, angrily, nervously excited. "Let the infantry march off."
"That's out of the question now," Ducardi hastened to say, with an unhappy smile. "You understand that that can't be done."
The conversation had been carried on aside, in a half-whispering tone; yet everybody seemed to listen. All eyes were gazing on the group surrounding the princes; the others were silent.