“May I entreat his Majesty to continue his drive?” said an agitated commissary of police, thrusting his way to the front through the raging, roaring mass of people that had closed around the troopers and their prisoner. “The crowd are beginning to believe that the assassin has accomplished her purpose, and the woman will be torn in pieces before we can get her to the prison, unless the King will drive on and show himself, and so distract their attention from her.”
“Do you want her blood on your head?” cried Cyril, pushing his brother back into his place. “Go on, and let me see after her. I promise you I will take no steps without your leave. Drive on,” he called to the coachman.
Angry and bewildered, Caerleon found himself carried on, past the seething crowd into which Cyril was now forcing his way, and between fresh rows of anxious spectators who had not been able to leave their places, so closely were they packed together, and who were necessarily a prey to the wildest rumours. They greeted the King with tumultuous cheers; and as the news spread, those who were on the outskirts of the crowd, and found it impossible to obtain a view of him, rushed to the churches and began to ring the bells, so that the drive continued in a perfect pandemonium of sound. Caerleon, bowing mechanically to right and left, and wondering what could have brought Nadia to Bellaviste, and where Cyril would take her, could scarcely hear himself speak when he remembered that it would be suitable to make some remark to his companion on what had happened. He looked across at General Sertchaieff, but started when his eyes fell upon his face, for it was pale and set, and as expressionless as a mask.
“I am afraid this alarm has given you a shock, General?” he said, wondering whether it would be advisable to summon a doctor to prescribe for the Minister of War.
“Who would not be painfully affected by the attempt to perpetrate such a crime, sir?” returned General Sertchaieff. “Whom can we trust when Scythia turns our peasant-girls into assassins? I know these women: they will dare everything and tell nothing.”
“I hope you will find you are mistaken,” said Caerleon. “I myself am quite convinced that it was not an attempt at assassination at all.”
Etiquette forbade General Sertchaieff to advance an opinion contrary to that of his sovereign, but he shook his head sadly, and it was evident that the people were sharers in his belief. Indeed, before Caerleon returned to the palace, it was commonly known in the city that the would-be assassin—a woman of extraordinary stature, and armed with three dynamite bombs, a dagger, and a couple of revolvers—had mounted the step of the carriage and dealt a stab at the King, which was only not fatal because the troopers had seized her and dragged her back just in time. In view of such a determined attempt at murder, it is not wonderful that the people thronged into the churches to return thanks for the King’s escape, and that every loyal householder in Bellaviste devised and proceeded to execute marvellous impromptu illuminations for the evening with candles and oil-lamps. Cyril smiled grimly over the popular enthusiasm as he returned to the palace, and wondered impatiently how things were ever to be set right. Out of doors, the people were breathing out furious threats against the assassin; inside the palace Caerleon was waiting in restless anxiety for news of her.
“Well, where is she?” he asked eagerly, as Cyril came in.
“In the prison. We had to take her there to save her life,—the people were kicking up such a row,” as Caerleon uttered an exclamation of horror; “but she is in the governor’s house, treated as a guest; and the governor’s wife, rather a jolly old lady, but as deaf as a post,—which is an advantage under the circumstances,—is looking after her like a mother.”
“But what brought her here?”