It was not yet two o’clock when the strains of the national anthem were heard in a distant chamber, heralding royalty’s approach. The magnificent procession advanced with measured steps. A strained hush spread over the room. Twelve hundred eyes turned toward the portal, and neither the dazzling glitter of imperial insignia, nor the splendor of the royal standard, caused a quiver of distraction. Neither grand dukes nor grand duchesses, Empress or Dowager-Empress, not even Trepoff himself, commanded a single glance. Eagerly every eye in the room sought one figure--the Czar! The first view of him spoke only of pathos. Unutterably lonely he appeared--a slight shuffling figure with a pale, set face. Three paces into the room his feet strayed out from the line of procession; his head jerked awkwardly. His breast heaved markedly and his shoulders were squared with an effort. There was timidity in his glance and his step was never sure. Those of us who were to his right, and near enough, saw him fumble for his trousers-pocket [Illustration: The Emperor reading his throne speech] as he stood before the prelates of the church to receive the holy blessing. He drew out a small blue-tinted handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Then for the first time he fairly raised his head to survey the assemblage about him. Surely the strangest phalanxes ever monarch walked between were those on his either side. To his left was massed all the brilliance and pomp of empire. To his right the plainest body of men ever got together on this planet to deliberate the destiny of a nation. France, in her most radical days, adhered less rigidly to the forms and appearances of democracy.