"This carriage, and with you in the shadow, monseigneur," he observed,--"they think it is the Emperor who passes." The reply was not made by Stanief. Straight and surely aimed, a missile hurtled from an upper window in one of the buildings and fell on the cushions beside him. "For peace and freedom!" shrieked a man, leaning from the window in half-insane excitement and waving his arms above his head. "No Adrian--for the Emperor Feodor!" The crowd grew white with upturned faces; then, comprehending, broke into tumult and panic. Screaming, frantic, one and all turned to fly from the vicinity of the carriage. Allard snatched the bomb from the seat and rose to fling it from him, but even as he checked himself, Stanief seized his arm. "Not into the people, John," he ordered sharply. "Better keep it here than that." "Go, you!" Allard implored, turning the smoking object in his hands for examination. "Go, monseigneur!" Above the uproar of the fighting, shrieking mob rose the agonized cry of the man at the window as he saw the Regent's face: "You! You! The fuse, pull the fuse!" "Fuse?" echoed Allard, catching at a small hanging thread of cotton. "Monseigneur, go, go! I can handle this--" The cotton broke off short; a steady hissing warned them that it still burned inside. "Give it here," Stanief commanded collectedly. "Get your penknife." The two men bent above the oval, gray messenger of hate and death. Around them raged indescribable disorder; the very coachman and footmen had fled from the carriage. "If you would go!" Allard panted, his voice tense. "Bah," said Stanief, and forced the bomb from him. An ominous snapping came from within. Stanief's strong white fingers fitted themselves to the crack and with a superb effort he twisted the thing in half. "Ah!" gasped Allard, blinded, as a great cloud of smoke rushed forth. Stanief drew out the fuse as it reached the end, and flung it into the street. "Lighted too late," he explained. "Our terrorists are clumsy." "They meant it for Adrian," he answered. "You were right." They found each other's hands through the choking fumes; Allard's fingers scorched by the guncotton, Stanief's bruised and bleeding from the force used to open the machine. As the smoke cleared they looked around, then back at each other. They were alone in a deserted street. Distant cries, increasing tumult, announced the spreading panic. Three blocks away flashed the green-and-gold of the palace guards as they charged to the scene, over pavements littered with fallen garments, the contents of overturned vehicles, and the vehicles themselves. The well-trained horses of the royal carriage had stood still, accustomed to public demonstrations of a different nature but similar violence. "Really," Allard exclaimed, on the verge of laughter. "Really, monseigneur--" "There has been some excitement," Stanief assented. "Will you go on to the palace and explain to the Emperor? I am going back to reassure madame."