The service over, Ivan repaired to the Hall of Nobles, as one whose rank entitled him to find entrance there. He had to content himself with an obscure place in the crowded assembly, where he could not see the Czar, although he could hear his voice. In a noble address, Alexander laid before his subjects the full extent of the public danger. He concealed nothing; the strength of the invaders, the position of the army, its perils, its resources, its needs, all were revealed with a large-minded candour which would have honoured the constitutional monarch of a free people. In conclusion, he said that he “regarded the zeal of the nobility as the firmest support of the throne. In all times and on all occasions it has proved the faithful defender of the integrity and glory of Russia.” Here his voice thrilled, faltered with emotion, and he paused amidst a universal cry that seemed to shake the massive roof and walls of the grand old hall--“Ask what you please, sire; we offer you everything.” One of the nobles proposed the gift of a serf in every twenty-five; but a chorus of eager voices interrupted, “It is not half enough!” Finally, one serf in every ten, ready armed and equipped, and provided for three months, was unanimously voted for the service of the Czar.[19] While all this went on, Ivan sat in his place, silent and sad at heart. _He_ had nothing to give,--nothing but his life; yet that, perhaps, might count for something hereafter. In the meantime, a scene equally significant was taking place in the adjacent Hall of Merchants. Old Petrovitch repaired thither with the rest, leaning on the arm of his youthful guide Feodor, his eldest son, who ought to have accompanied him, being absent at the time. “I cannot see the face of the Lord’s anointed,” he said, “but I can hear his voice.” This assembly, like the other, was densely crowded. Feodor contrived to find standing room upon the edge of a seat; and from this vantage-ground he was able to look over the heads of the throng of grave, bearded merchants. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “the Czar is not here; only the Governor.” “God save his Excellency Count Rostopchine! Hearts of steel, such as his, are sorely needed now,” the old man responded. “But we can see _him_ any day we like. It is the Czar we want to see,” grumbled Feodor. “Patience, boy; he is coming,” said one of the merchants near them. “And, while we wait for him, it is _his_ words the count is going to give us, not his own.”