He knew the hearts of men. By this action he had turned their weapons from his own bosom upon his assailants.
That one Finnish battalion defended the Winter Palace from the morning to the evening against the whole revolutionary force.
Nicholas, however, springing on his horse, dashed through the gates, followed by his generals.
In front of the palace surged a dense mass of the lowest of the low, roaring out The Song of the Knife—its harvest-time had come. Riding into their very midst, Nicholas said:
"What are you doing here, dear children? This is no place for you."
The people looked at one another.
"Eh! He is a kind man! He calls us his dear children, and tells us so kindly to go away from here. Let's go home!"
And they dispersed.
Outside the Admiralty he was received by some well-affected battalions. At their head he marched to the vast Czar Peter's Platz, where was the insurgents' camp. One-half of the square was occupied by them; the other half by the troops loyal to him. Betwixt the opposing armies was the colossal statue on its granite pedestal, with hands outstretched, no one knows whether to command or bless. One party of insurgents stormed the castle on the other side of the frozen Neva; the other pressed on towards the gates of the Winter Palace, Nicholas wandering, meanwhile, undecidedly up and down the great square, weighing on which cast of the die hung the fate of his imperial house and empire. He had first endeavored by every means in his power to avoid the conflict—had sent the most popular leader of the army, General Miloradovics, to parley with the insurgents and move them to submission. A ball had struck him from his horse before he could speak; it was Kakhowsky who had shot him. The heroic general died in the Czar's arms. Then he had sent the highest Church dignitary of the country, the metropolitan Seraphim, in full canonicals, to parley with his enemies.
What cared they now for priests? Seizing the venerable man by his snow-white beard, they had roared in his ears: