From the deputies and the crowd in the square burst an overwhelming shout, “Theophanis for Prince!” Daggers were drawn and revolvers fired in the air, and the shouting went on unabated. Herr Melchthal retained his presence of mind through all the noise. He approached the Professor.
“In the name of Europe I protest against this farce,” he said loudly. “No mandate has been given for an election.”
“No mandate is needed,” was the fiery reply, and the deputies cheered again. “Here are the representatives of free Emathia, responsible only to God and their country. They will now proceed, with all possible solemnity, to repeat by means of the ballot the election they have just made by acclamation. Mr President, will you be good enough to convene the Assembly?”
The crowd in the square were silent now, watching with eager eyes the deputies as they filed into the building. An attempt at further protest on Herr Melchthal’s part was met with cries of “Privilege!” and he and his colleagues were forced to assert the dignity of Europe in no more effective way than by withdrawing in a body, lest by their presence they should be supposed to countenance what was going on. It was a bitter pill to be obliged to request safe-conduct from Wylie for their passage through the streets, but the choice lay between this and sneaking out at the back of the Chamber, and each diplomatist was duly guarded through the hostile throng by equally hostile soldiers, and seen safe to his own door.
The actual election occupied a very short time. The last of the Consuls had barely left the square when a deputation of members came to invite their Highnesses to enter the Chamber. Here there was a slight difficulty, for some of the deputies wished to impose a condition which Maurice declined to accept, but the rest prevailed upon them to withdraw their stipulation, and Maurice and Eirene Theophanis emerged under the great portico Prince and Princess of Emathia. Eirene had cast aside her cloak, and stood magnificent in a gown of Byzantine splendour, with the Girdle of Isidora about her waist. The jewel was recognised at once and another shout went up. “The talisman! the talisman! Hail to the Orthodox Empress!”
She stilled them with a motion of her hand. “The Princess of Emathia to-day, friends; and to-day is the proudest day of my life so far.”
The underlying thought was so clearly implied that the people shouted again, and the hastily formed processions bringing bread and salt to offer to the new sovereigns could hardly pass. Everywhere in the crowd travelled persons who had visited Klaustra were lauding the administration of Maurice and Wylie and prophesying benefits to Emathia from their rule, and Zoe, Armitage and Danaë shared in the enthusiasm aroused. When they escaped at last from the many hands held out reverentially to touch their clothes, it was to be thankful for the refuge offered by their carriage, as it moved at a foot-pace across the square. Danaë sank into her place like one dazed. The events of the last two hours—her brother’s death, the instant election of his rival—were not to be grasped as yet.
“What I should like to know,” said Armitage suddenly to Zoe, “is when Prince Romanos really died.”
“Oh, that has struck you too, has it?” said Zoe. “When do you think?”
“At first I thought last night, but now I am inclined to wonder if it may not have been as soon as he reached the Palace after Petros stabbed him.”