“The Lord save us!” said the stranger.
“Amen!” said Micus. “And when the silence was resumed, some one shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Anarchists! Anarchists! Anarchists!’”
“What is an anarchist?” asked the stranger.
“An anarchist,” answered Micus, “is one who don’t know what’s the matter with himself or the world, and cares as little about his own life as he does about any one else’s.”
“There are a lot of fools in the world, I’m thinking,” said the stranger.
“There are, thank God,” replied Micus. “Well, as true as I’m telling you, every one in the place took to their heels when the great noise came, except Bryan O’Loughlin and the Czar himself. And if you looked out through the windows of the Town Hall, you’d see for miles and miles and miles along the roads nothing but Grand Dukes and fair ladies, soldiers and sailors, and they flying helter-skelter as though the Devil, or Cromwell himself, was after them.”
“And what did the Czar himself say?” queried the stranger.
“‘The pusillanimous varmints,’ ses he, as he trod the floor with disdain; and then, lo and behold! another blast rang out, and the Czar with all his swords and medals fell into Bryan’s arms, and cried out! ‘I’m a dead man,’ ses he. ‘Bury me with my mother’s people!’
“But he was no more dead than myself, for he only stepped on a blank cartridge which was dropped by some of the Grand Dukes in the scrummage for the doors—and that’s what nearly took the senses from His Royal Highness the Czar of Russia.
“Well, when he came to himself some time after, he ses to Bryan: ‘You’re a brave man,’ ses he, ‘and you must be rewarded for your valor,’ and Bryan felt as proud as the Duke of Wellington and he after putting the comether on poor Napoleon; and to show how little he cared for danger, he trod on every cartridge he saw on the floor, and if you were there you’d think ’twas at the battle of Vinegar Hill you were.