"Those fellows at the back have been killing some one," he said; "I can tell by their voices. They are drunk with the sight of blood." Some new orator gained the ears of the rabble at this moment, and the ill-kempt heads swayed from side to side. "It is useless," he cried, "telling him what you want. He will not give it you. Go and take it! Go and take it, little fathers; that is the only way!" Steinmetz raised his hand and peered down into the crowd, looking for the man of eloquence, and the voice was hushed. At this moment, however, the yelling increased, and through the door-way leading to the servants' quarters came a stream of men--bloodstained, ragged, torn. They were waving arms and implements above their heads. "Down with the aristocrats! kill them--kill them!" they were shrieking. A little volley of fire-arms further excited them. But vodka is not a good thing to shoot upon, and Paul stood untouched, waiting, as he had said, until they were tired of shouting. "Now," yelled Steinmetz to him in English, "we must go. We can make a stand at the head of the stairs, then the door-way, then----" He shrugged his shoulders. "Then--the end," he added, as they moved up the stairs step by step, backward. "My very good friend," he went on, "at the door we must begin to shoot them down. It is our only chance. It is, moreover, our duty toward the ladies." "There is one alternative," answered Paul. "The Moscow Doctor?" "Yes." "They may turn," said Paul; "they are just in that humor." The new-comers were the most dangerous. They were forcing their way to the front. There was no doubt that, as soon as they could penetrate the densely packed mob, they would charge up the stairs, even in face of a heavy fire. The reek of vodka was borne up in the heated atmosphere, mingled with the nauseating odor of filthy clothing. "Go," said Steinmetz, "and put on your doctor's clothes. I can keep them back for a few minutes." There was no time to be lost. Paul slipped away, leaving Steinmetz alone at the summit of the state stairway, standing grimly, revolver in hand. In the drawing-room Paul found Maggie, alone. "Where is Etta?" he asked. "She left the room some time ago." "But I told her to stay," said Paul. To this Maggie made no answer. She was looking at him with an anxious scrutiny. "Did they shoot at you?" she asked. "Yes; but not straight," he answered, with a little laugh, as he hurried on. In a few moments he was back in the drawing-room, a different man, in the rough, stained clothes of the Moscow Doctor. The din on the stairs was louder. Steinmetz was almost in the door-way. He was shooting economically, picking his men. With an effort Paul dragged one or two heavy pieces of furniture across the room, in the form of a rough barricade. He pointed to the hearthrug where Maggie was to stand. "Ready!" he shouted to Steinmetz. "Come!" The German ran in, and Paul closed the barricade.