The roar of the cannon deadened the bells. It is the people's habit to count the salvoes. Three were the signal for the lighting up of the Bengal lights.
But the cannon thundered on.
When the reports had reached twenty-one, people whispered under their breath, "What! can it be the birth of a princess in the Winter Palace?"
No. Still the cannons thundered on.
At the fiftieth report the rumor arose that a successful naval engagement was being celebrated.
But still the cannons continued their volley, amid the crash of church bells.
When the iron tongue had roared for the hundred and first time, people began to ask themselves, "Can this be the Czar's birthday?"
No; not even that. The iron monsters thundered on—102, 103, 104. At the hundred and fifth time none asked any more what it meant; for the whole city with one voice sent up a despairing cry, deadening even the crash of the three hundred bells.
"It is coming! It is coming!"
But it was not the approach of Napoleon's army which aroused the voice of panic, but that of a far mightier lord—the Neva! which, rushing back upon the city, brings the sea with it, and with foaming, roaring, resistless waves breaks up the ice of the river, flinging it abroad on all sides.