Down below in the quadrangle, another limp, huddled figure was being borne, hurriedly, and unceremoniously by red-coated soldiers, whose fixed bayonets caught the sun, in the direction of the guardroom, on the right. There was no life in that figure—
Beyond the palace railings, the maddened, infuriated crowd swayed to and fro in great billows of pent-up fury, an ocean of clamorous, tumultuous passion, striving to break its bounds, to the accompaniment of animal cries of anger, and the confused shouting of a thousand voices.
The King took it all in at a glance. A sudden, strange calm, a sure, quiet confidence were with him now.
The anger of the crowd was hideous, menacing. The line of the military, and the police, between the crowd and the palace tossed up and down, like a line of corks on a wild, tempestuous sea. At any moment, that line might break, and the infuriated mob would be let loose, with its madness, its lust for blood, its wild shouting for lynch law.
Anything might happen, at any moment, unless something was done, and done quickly.
And he was the man who must take action—
Without haste, surely, and skilfully, the King climbed on to the stone parapet of the balcony.
Then he drew himself up to his full height, and held up his hand—
He had no fear. He knew no doubt. He had no anxiety.
He knew what he had to do.