“You smile, Count?” said Prince Mirkovics to Cyril.
“Doesn’t it strike you as funny,” was the reply, “that these fellows would treat Drakovics in the same way next week if he was in our place? I have known——” the words were cut short by a man who bounded suddenly up the steps. A gleaming knife was in his hand, and with a cry of “Die, traitor!” he struck furiously at Cyril, who raised his left arm mechanically to ward off the weapon. The blow failed of its intended effect, but gashed his arm from wrist to elbow, leaving his coat-sleeve hanging in shreds. Realising that he had missed his aim, the man uttered a curse and lifted his knife a second time; but Prince Mirkovics, recovering from his momentary stupefaction, drew a pistol from his girdle and shot him dead. A low murmur broke from the crowd; but they were too much astonished by the turn events had taken to attempt to follow up the attack.
“Who can he be?” asked M. Georgeivics, bending over the body of the would be assassin. “A theological student, evidently, and an extremist, from his shaggy hair and beard; but why should he single out Count Mortimer in especial?”
“He is a theological student and a fanatic,” said Cyril, “and he did his best to betray us when the King and Queen were escaping from Tatarjé. No doubt he knew me again. But when you have feasted your eyes sufficiently on his body,” he added faintly, “perhaps one of you will tie something round my arm?”
With a murmur of compunction, Prince Mirkovics twisted a silk handkerchief into a cord, and fastened it tightly round the injured limb, from which the blood was flowing fast, then increased the pressure by inserting the handle of his knife under the bandage and screwing it round.
“We must get you to a surgeon at once,” he said. “Can you walk?”
“If you will give me your arm. I don’t want them to think I am dead yet. By the bye, Drakovics,” he turned to the Premier, who was contemplating the scene from his doorway, “it would be advisable to choose your instruments better on the next occasion.”
“My instruments! Do you then accuse me of planning this outrage, Count?”
“I make no accusations, monsieur. The facts suffice.”
And taking Prince Mirkovics’s arm, Cyril proceeded to descend the steps with as much dignity as his loss of blood would allow. Happily they had not far to go before reaching a surgeon, and the people made way for them with sullen acquiescence. It was of course out of the question now to go to the Palace and tender their resignations; but Cyril’s colleagues waited for him outside the surgeon’s house, intending to escort him home, lest another attack should be made upon him. Before he was out of the doctor’s hands, however, Prince Mirkovics entered the surgery.