The suggestion was hailed with acclamations, and the blessed icon, a smoke-begrimed painting on a board, promptly handed to Cyril. He kissed it immediately, and the butcher held it to the lips of King Michael. He drew back fretfully, and his mother pushed it away. A murmur rose from the mob, and the self-appointed inquisitor offered the icon to the Queen, who rejected it so vigorously that it fell from his hand to the ground. Cyril called to her angrily to kiss it; but she shook her head obstinately, and stood facing the crowd with gleaming eyes and heaving breast.
“She is a Jewess!” was the cry, as the butcher picked up the icon reverently.
“Not a bit of it,” said Cyril, brushing the dust off it with the sleeve of his coat. “She doesn’t understand.”
“You make her undershtand, if she’sh your wife,” said the tipsy man.
“Why didn’t you ask me at first? You have frightened her and made her angry, and now she won’t do it for me.”
“It is quite clear that the woman is either a Jewess or possessed with a devil,” said the butcher solemnly. A murmur of assent greeted him, and he turned to Cyril. “You can stay here, young man; but the girl and her brat must go. We won’t have them in our town.”
“Then I shall go too,” said Cyril, warned by a whisper from the hostess, “Get her away before they begin to ill-treat her. They are nasty to-night.” Beckoning to the women to follow him, he pushed his way through the crowd and out at the gate, this sudden movement taking the enemy by surprise. One or two started in pursuit, however; but the brandy they had found in the Jewish spirit-shops interfered with their walking powers, and they considered it wiser to remain at the gate and hurl stones and pieces of rubbish after the fugitives. It was difficult to maintain the semblance of dignity when walking as fast as possible, and trying not to duck too precipitately in order to avoid the missiles thus despatched; but the Queen achieved the feat, and entered the forest with the lofty mien of a martyr, carrying her boy as easily as if indignation had driven away all fatigue.
“I am sorry you thought it well to destroy your chances of obtaining a night’s rest, madame,” said Cyril, selecting a path which led in the direction of the mountain, when they were out of sight and earshot of the city.
“I am sorry you thought it well to kiss the icon, Count.”
“I am not a Jew, madame. I should call myself a Christian if I was asked, I suppose.”