The memory of their past glories fired the blood of every patriot in the cathedral to an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Moved by a simultaneous impulse, the whole body of Poles sprang to their feet, drew their swords, and began to join in the refrain; and Katina's voice was immediately drowned in one grand outpouring. The sparkle of a thousand sword-blades waving in the iridescent light cast by richly stained glass, the coloring and splendor of dresses and jewels, the magnificent roll of voices beneath the lofty Gothic arches, the notes of the organ pealing high above the chant--for the organist, catching the fire of patriotism, was pressing the keys of his instrument as he had never pressed them before--were sights and sounds that baffle description. Strong men sang with tears in their eyes, and women fainted with emotion. Now, as previously stated, the Muscovites occupied the northern aisle and its adjacent transept, a narrow space only separating them from the Poles in the nave. Across this division the two factions glared fiercely at each other; threats were uttered; challenges interchanged; and when the Muscovites in turn began to raise the Russian National Anthem the berserker spirit of the Poles broke forth. "Down with the Muscovites!" "Sweep them from the cathedral!" "The princess forever!" "No. Duke of Bora!" Katina herself, skilled in the use of the sword, was the first in the fray, the standard still held in her hand. "Take to your guard, knouter of women!" she cried, singling out her old enemy, the ex-governor of Orenburg. Her example found ready imitators, and in a moment more the clash of steel went ringing down the northern aisle. Half-a-dozen Muscovites, sword in hand, sprang forward, and facing outwards, formed a protecting circle around the person of the duke, who, for his part, stood with folded arms, a passive and silent spectator of the wild work that was taking place. Zabern, desirous of defending Katina, drew his sabre and endeavored to force his way through the two opposing lines to the place where the red-handed banner waved like a rallying beacon above the flashing points of steel. Barbara rose to her feet and gazed with grief upon a scene, the like of which, though rarely witnessed in modern times within the hallowed interior of a cathedral, was familiar enough in the old Byzantine days when the election of a bishop had often to be decided by an appeal to arms. She was in the act of bidding Radzivil summon the military to part the combatants, when a sudden and striking apparition rendered the command unnecessary. "Down with your arms!"