Turning from the balcony the grim red figure ran, or, to put it more correctly, reeled forward in the direction of the Paulovski Guards. Trotting quietly in his rear, as if to keep an eye upon him, came Benningsen upon his black horse Pluto. “Men of the Paulovski Guards,” gasped Voronetz in a hollow voice, “do not ... shout for ... Alexander! Listen! I have a tale ... to ... tell....” “Tell it, then, in hell!” growled Benningsen, as he whirled his sabre on high. Men talked for days afterwards of that mighty stroke. When Benningsen lifted his sabre again Voronetz lay on the ground, cloven from skull to breast! Angry cries broke from the Paulovski Guards. Many of them levelled their rifles at Benningsen, who, to do him justice, did not flinch at this critical moment. “Eyes right!” he yelled. So well had these troops been drilled that in a moment their eyes, in spite of their will, turned to the right. There was no need for Benningsen to say more. The Guards saw what he wanted them to see. A body of infantry near by had suddenly receded some six paces or more, revealing the startling fact that they had been posted as a sort of screen to mask a battery of twenty cannon, whose gleaming nozzles, obliquely turned, were trained full upon the whole line of the Paulovski Guards. Beside each piece stood a gunner ready with lighted match. If that battery should be discharged it was certain that, though many civilians in the rear would at the same time fall, the Paulovski Guards themselves would be blown out of existence, and with the recognition of that fact vanished, for that day at least, all hope of revolt. “Pile arms, ye snub-noses!—Paulovski Guards that were!” said Benningsen with an insulting smile. Slowly and sullenly the discomfited regiment proceeded to obey, and defiled from the square, escorted on each side by mounted Cossacks, who grinned rejoicingly that an end had come to the favoured regiment with its high privileges and high pay. The young Emperor turned away, his face already shadowed by that melancholy that was never to leave it. “What a beginning to a reign!” he murmured. “Sire, its future glory shall make men forget its beginning,” said Count Pahlen. CHAPTER XIII THE TRIUMPH OF BARANOFF From the balcony the Czar withdrew to a stately hall to receive in audience his late father’s ministers. As they advanced, one by one, Alexander with gracious air bade each continue in the exercise of his office. When, however, Baranoff approached, the Czar’s countenance underwent a change, and the Count recognised that his dismissal was at hand. The Franco-Russian Alliance had been mainly due to him, and it was no secret that Alexander had viewed it with disapproval. “Count,” the Emperor began, “your policy in the past——”