When he awoke, he went into the dining-room, and found Jaen Scheerborck sleeping at the table. “Bring him out!” commanded the Czar. “Is he not to accompany your Majesty any more?” the chamberlain, who was a favourite, ventured to ask. “No! I have had enough of him; one should not meet people more than once in a lifetime. Carry him to the pump--that will sober him, and then take him to his ship”--and with a contemptuous glance he added, “You old beast!” Then he felt whether his sabre was secure, and went out. After his sleep, Peter was again the Emperor--lofty, upright, dignified. He went along the promenade, serious and sedate, as though to a battle. When he had found Number 14, he entered at once, sure of finding his fifty men there. On the right hand ground-floor towards the courtyard, all the windows stood open. There he saw the conspirators sitting at a long table and drinking wine. He stepped into the room, saw many of his friends there, and felt a stab at his heart. “Good-day, comrades!” was his cheery greeting. The whole company rose like one man. They exchanged looks and put on faces for the occasion. “Let us drink a glass together, friends!” Peter threw himself on a chair; then he looked at a clock in the room, and saw it was only half-past four. He had made a mistake of half an hour. Was it his own error, or was Menshikoff’s clock wrong? “Half an hour!” he thought to himself, but in the next second he had emptied a huge glass, and began to sing a very popular soldiers’ song, keeping time by knocking the glass against the table. The effect of the song was magical. They had sung it as victors at Pultowa; they had marched to the accompaniment of its strains; it carried their memories to better, happier times, and they all joined in. Peter’s strong personality, the winning amiable air he could assume when he liked, had an attractive power for all. One song led to another, and singing relieved the terrible embarrassment. It was the only possible way of avoiding a conversation. Between the songs the Czar proposed a health, or drank to an old friend, reminding him of some experience which they had shared in common. He dared not look at the clock lest he should betray himself, but he found the half hour in this den of murderers intolerably long. Several times he saw two exchanging glances, but then he threw in a jesting word and the thread was broken. He was playing for his life, and he played well, for he misled them with his cheerfulness and naivete, so that they could not tell whether he knew anything or not. He played with their irresolution. At last he heard the rattle of arms in the courtyard, and with one bound he was out of the window.