Eager for the coming of this moment, Baranoff urged the rowers to greater speed, and as soon as the barge grated against the steps of the granite quay he sprang hastily ashore, and taking his place among the detachment of military sent to escort him, he moved onward to the Imperial Square. His coming drew a satirical smile from Pauline. “There are surprises for you, Sir Count,” she murmured. He had now arrived at the principal entrance of the Winter Palace, an entrance lofty and arched, and surmounted by a spacious balcony, upon which Paul, whenever the humour took him, was accustomed to show himself to his people. Against this archway there had been set a staircase, covered with scarlet cloth, leading to the balcony above it. Assuming an air of dignity suitable to the occasion, Baranoff ascended the staircase, bearing in both hands the historic golden goblet filled with water taken from the Neva. As he slowly mounted aloft he became the mark of all eyes in and around the square. His appearance was greeted with a loud “_Hourra!_” from the crowd. Their long waiting was over. Usage prescribed that the Czar must come forth without delay to drink from that notable cup. In truth, before Baranoff had gained the top stair the troops were presenting arms, and a military band, stationed beneath the balcony, broke forth into the soul-stirring music of Russia’s national anthem. A tall window giving access to the balcony was flung wide, and there stepped forth a lofty and majestic figure, arrayed in a rich uniform. Behind him came a train of magnates, civil, military, and ecclesiastical; among this last and bearing in his hands a tall golden cross was the Archbishop Plato, conspicuous by his long snowy hair and beard, his stately person and majestic flowing robes. The train paused while the figure in the rich uniform advanced to the edge of the balcony, and bowed to the populace, who greeted the action with thunders of applause. But though the figure was far distant Wilfrid, without having recourse to the lorgnette, could tell that it was not Little Paul. Who was it that thus assumed to himself all the honours of Czardom? Wilfrid’s feeling was one of surprise merely; that of Baranoff’s was absolute, overwhelming dismay. First on the list of conspirators to be denounced by him came the hateful name of the imprisoned Alexander, and lo! it was Alexander himself that faced him and put forth his hand for the goblet! “None but the Czar can drink from this cup,” said Baranoff huskily, drawing back a pace or two. “True, and the Czar is before you,” returned the other. “Yesterday it was Paul.” “And to-day it is Alexander. To-morrow it may be—who can tell? Is Fortune ever constant?” Mechanically Baranoff surrendered the goblet to Alexander, who, turning to the now silent people, cried with a loud voice— “To the health of the Russian nation!”