The terrified congregation mechanically made a passage for the new-comer, whose light-green beshmet was streaming with the mud of many a Russian province—the black mud of the Nogai steppes, the yellow mud of Moscow, the chalky clay of Novgorod, and the greeny slime of Czarskoje Zelo. In his hand the messenger held a letter, with which he pressed forward through the throng direct to the Grand Duke Nicholas. It was the Czarina's letter to the Dowager Czarina.
The Grand Duke, taking the letter, opened it himself.
Then, hurriedly going up to the protopope, whispered something in his ear. Upon which the protopope, covering the crucifix he held in his hand with crape, advanced to the Czarina Marie, saying:
"Thy son is dead!"
And, the choir breaking off their Te Deum, in another minute the burial hymn mournfully resounded through the chapel:
"Lord! send him eternal peace!"
The service which had begun as a Te Deum had ended as a requiem.
CHAPTER XLVI
"BEATUS ILLE ..."
What, on this earth, is true happiness?
To be able to dissociate one's self from the tussle and tangle of the political arena.