The crowd thickened. The little groups became two continuous lines of people, on either side of the road, people closely packed in deep ranks, behind cordons of policemen. The cheering grew in volume, took on a deeper note, became a continuous roar-- At first, the King smiled, and bowed, mechanically, to the left, and to the right, as he sat in the carriage. Soon he found himself standing up, bareheaded, in the carriage, so that all the people could see him. The Duke, who had sunk far back into the carriage, supported him from behind against his knees. Yes. The Duke was there-- Always the crowd grew, and the cheering increased in volume. In the inner suburbs, the flags were thicker than ever. Every window was open, and full of flushed, excited, smiling faces. Many of the roofs of the shops and houses were black with people. Down below, in the road, as the carriage moved slowly forward, the crowd swayed to and fro, in a frenzy of enthusiasm. Flowers fell, thick and fast, in a multi-coloured rain, in front of the carriage. Here and there, at conspicuous street corners, men in working dress tore, or trampled upon, or burnt, the Red Flag of the revolutionary-- It was a universal outpouring of pent-up feeling, a delirium of enthusiasm, without parallel-- The King himself could not remain, for long, unaffected. In spite of himself, in spite of his determination not to be deceived by the chimeras of this fevered, sunlit, daydream, he was caught up on, he was thrilled by, the wild enthusiasm which surged about him. His pulse quickened. He trembled where he stood in the carriage-- And then, suddenly, a strange thing happened to him. It was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he could see. It was as if some weight that had been pressing upon his brain was lifted, and he could think clearly, sanely. He had been not far from the verge of madness. Now he was himself again-- This was no dream. These people at whom he was smiling, these people to whom he was bowing, mechanically, right and left, were actual, real. This roar of cheers meant something. It rang true. It was genuine. It was sincere. These cheers, repeated, over and over again, never ending, had a new, deep, unmistakable personal note, which he had never heard before. This was no half-hearted, perfunctory enthusiasm. These people were glad to see him. They were cheering--him. And they meant it! They were--his people. And he was--their King-- A thrill of triumph, an exultation which shook him, from head to foot, as he stood in the carriage, ran through the King. And then it left him, and, in its place, came a sickening chill. But these people, his people, did not know what had happened, what he had done, how lightly he had held them. If they knew the true, the inner, history of the last twenty-four hours, would they cheer him like this? All his former impatience with, his contempt for, himself, at that moment, returned to the King.