“One could prohibit the Metropolitan from preaching to-morrow.”
“And convince him that there’s something in the wind if Prince Soudaroff said nothing to him, and give him a glorious handle against us if he has been tampered with. He is yearning already for an opportunity of denouncing us as oppressors of the Church, and I believe he and his clergy are the hottest pro-Scythians in Thracia.”
“Then you would do nothing?”
“Far from it. Hope for the best, and keep the police ready for action.”
And with this shameless parody of the Puritan leader’s charge to his troops Cyril took his leave. The misgivings which assailed him caused him to take a very unusual step on the morrow, which happened to be the festival of a holy man of local celebrity, known as St Gabriel of Tatarjé. St Gabriel was supposed to have been martyred by the Roumis about the end of the fourteenth century (the chronology of his life and times was somewhat uncertain), and the traditions of the country required that on the anniversary of his death the Metropolitan should preach a sermon in his honour at the cathedral of Bellaviste. On this occasion Cyril was one of those who attended the service. He had no wish to obtrude his presence on the Thracian portion of the congregation, and as a good many foreigners, either tourists or members of the various legations, had seized the opportunity of witnessing informally the solemn pageantry of the Greek saint’s-day celebration, he was able to obtain a place behind one of the pillars without attracting attention. The earlier portion of the service passed off quietly; but when the Metropolitan began his sermon Cyril perceived at once that his fears had been only too well founded. Without the slightest attempt at disguise the preacher went straight to the point, denouncing the royal house as heretics, and M. Drakovics as their supporter, with great vigour. Through the Premier it had come about that Thracia had accepted a monarch and a code of laws from the ungodly and schismatical nations of the West, instead of finding a peaceful shelter under the protecting wings of the great Orthodox Empire, at whose head stood the heir of the Eastern Cæsars. It was a just retribution that the late King had been removed in his prime, and the kingdom left as the battle-ground of the western heretics. Another opportunity was providentially granted to the Thracians by reason of the youth of their present sovereign, and it was not too late to accept with gratitude the overtures of peace newly made to them by the long-suffering head of their faith. What did the Queen’s inevitable objections signify? Her son did not belong to her, but to Thracia. She was a German—a Jewess—who had filled the Court and the city with her creatures, and had set herself deliberately to frustrate the hopes of the nation from the day of her first entrance into Thracia. Was she to be allowed to come between the kingdom and its manifest destiny, the fulfilment of its burning desire for reunion with the race to which it really belonged, and to which it owed its freedom? Let her be given the choice between preserving her heresy and her son’s throne. If she was obdurate, she must be set aside and another regent appointed, with the concurrence of the Orthodox Emperor, who would see that the King was brought up in the true faith.
Cyril dared not delay longer. The conclusion of the sermon would no doubt be interesting, but to wait for it would mean that there would be no hope of anticipating its effect on the crowded congregation, belonging chiefly to the peasant and artisan classes, which filled the cathedral. Holding his handkerchief to his face, both as a disguise and as an excuse for departing, he slipped from his place and made his way to the door. Once outside the cathedral, he thought for a moment of the possibility of bringing up a sufficient force of police to overawe the congregation as they came out, and ensure their dispersing quietly. But the idea was negatived as soon as it arose, for the police-barracks were on the other side of the town, and it might cause a fatal loss of time to go thither, or even to turn aside and telephone to the chief of police. The Palace was Cyril’s charge, and until the Palace was safe, he could not think of anything else. Even before he had brought his train of reasoning to this conclusion, he was climbing the steep street which led to the Palace, and only just in time, for, turning as he entered the gate, he saw the congregation beginning to pour out of the cathedral. It was the work of a moment to call out the guard and close the gates, and then Cyril hurried to his office in order to telephone to the barracks a request for a strong force of police, and to M. Drakovics the news of the situation. He had little fear that any mob would be able to break into the Palace before the arrival of the police, for the guards were all drawn from the famous Carlino regiment, the best in the Thracian army, to which this honour had been committed since the disbandment of the untrustworthy Palace Guard of earlier years. It could not be doubted that with the advantages of position and discipline they would be able to keep the mob at bay at the gates; but the extent of wall to be defended was so large, and so easily to be scaled by one man climbing on the shoulders of another, that to avoid any risk from isolated intruders he sent a message to the Queen by M. Stefanovics, entreating her to remain with the King in her own apartments for the present.
No sooner had the message been sent than Cyril, from his commanding position at the head of the great flight of steps leading to the door of the Palace, caught sight of the advance-guard of an excited crowd debouching from the street he had just traversed. He could see the mob pressing up to the iron gates and shaking them in vain efforts to enter, then brandishing sticks and fists at the guards, and demanding with imprecations that the gates should be opened. Loud shouts were raised for the Queen and the little King, but not by any means as demonstrations of loyalty. Rather they were frantic demands that the Queen should at once yield to the wishes of her subjects, and agree to the King’s conversion, on pain either of being separated from him, or driven from Thracia with him. Cyril congratulated himself on his foresight in keeping the inmates of the Palace from coming in contact with the rioters, but it was not long before he became aware that he had rejoiced too soon. Hearing Stefanovics coming back, he turned to speak to him, and perceived to his dismay that the chamberlain was escorting Queen Ernestine, who held the little King by the hand, while a lady-in-waiting followed.
“I do not understand your message, Count,” said the Queen, pausing as Cyril confronted her. “My son’s subjects are anxious to see him on their festival-day, and you take it upon yourself to exclude them from the Palace. Have the goodness to throw open the gates and admit the people, so that the King may receive their loyal congratulations from the steps.”
“Allow me to entreat you, madame, to return to your apartments with his Majesty,” said Cyril. “This gathering is not what you think.”
She looked at him with disdainful displeasure. “Do you think I am deaf?” she asked scornfully. “They are crying, ‘The King! the Queen! let us see the Queen!’ You are afraid that this demonstration may embarrass M. Drakovics and his Government, and therefore you try to prevent the people from seeing their King.”