Or, was it not so? Was it that the great colossal figure which, like a second Atlas, had so long borne the whole world on its shoulders, had grown weary of the burden? That he who had been accustomed to hear his praises echoed from the four corners of the earth now shrank from hearing the murmurs born of revenge and bitterness, and that his soul yearned for the rest of the grave? Earth has nothing more for him to do. He feels that he stands in the way of history. He has lost all that his heart held dear; his last ray of sunshine, his sick wife's smile, is but a fading light in the sky of evening. Is it not possible that the giant, weary of life, and becoming aware of a call to another world, should, far from shutting out that call, open wide the doors, saying, "Here am I--let us go"? That day he had so far recovered that his illness seemed entirely to have disappeared. Even his physician was deceived by the outward symptoms; and late that evening a courier had been despatched to the Dowager Czarina in St. Petersburg with the glad news, "Alexander out of all danger. No further fears for him." (None further than some hundred thousand attempts at assassination.) But the next morning the benevolent spirit, which comes alike to kings and beggars to ease them of their burdens, had appeared to him, saying, "Come home." For three days and nights Elisabeth had not left her sick husband's room. She was his constant nurse, her wifely affection his one consolation. And to the Czar of All the Russias was granted the happiness--at the moment when every arm was turned against him, when the altar itself at which he prayed was undermined, when a whole vast empire was about to crumble to pieces about him--that for the last time, by the rays of the rising sun, with the life-giving warmth of the day-star bathing his brow, he could yield up his soul to Him who gave it with the words "_Ah, le beau jour!_"--the happiness of having tender hands to close his eyes, and to cross his arms upon his breast. Then the sick wife's strength broke down entirely, and she sank swooning to the ground. The two physicians, hastening to her, lifted her, and carried her to her apartment. The third man, who had been witness to the dying scene, hastened back to the study to send off the despatch to the Czarina-mother announcing the death of the Czar, giving the messenger instructions to make all speed in order to overtake the courier of the previous night, and, if possible, precede him. After which his next care was to send off a letter to the Grand Duke Constantine, in Warsaw. At that moment Jakuskin had entered. Diebitsch hastened on with his writing, his mood that of Russian cynical humor. "What is the Czar doing?" "Sleeping." "Dare I wake him?" "Wake him if you like!" Or had there been something in Jakuskin's face which betrayed his plans, and was that why the adjutant's utterances had been framed so sarcastically? * * * * *