e of this knot of wild fellows who, seeming to mistake him for one
of themselves, forced him onward with them in their career. For a moment
he attempted to resist. But as well might he have resisted a torrent.
Their rush was not to be stemmed. It almost swept him from his feet, and
to save himself he must perforce abandon himself to the impetus. Thus
he was swirled away across the floor of the amphitheatre, helpless as
a swimmer in strong waters, and with the fear of the drowning clutching
now at his heart.

He had an impulse to unmask, proclaim himself, and compel the respect
that was his due. But to do so might be to expose himself to the very
danger of whose presence he was now convinced. His only hope must lie
in allowing himself to be borne passively along until a chance opening
allowed him to escape from these madmen.

The stage had been connected with the floor of the theatre by a broad
flight of wooden steps. Up this flight he was carried by that human
wave. But on the stage itself he found an anchorage at last against one
of the wings. Breathing hard, he set his back to it, waiting for the
wave to sweep on and leave him. Instead, it paused and came to rest with
him, and in that moment some one touched him on the shoulder. He turned
his head, and looked into the set face of Ankarstrom, who was close
behind him. Then a burning, rending pain took him in his side, and he
grew sick and dizzy. The uproar of voices became muffled; the lights
were merged into a luminous billow that swelled and shrank and then went
out altogether.

The report of the pistol had been lost in the general din to all but
those who stood near the spot where it had been fired. And these found
themselves suddenly borne backwards by the little crowd of maskers that
fell away from the figure lying prone and bleeding on the stage.

Voices were raised, shouting "Fire! Fire!" Thus the conspirators sought
to create confusion, that they might disperse and lose themselves in the
general crowd. That confusion, however, was very brief. It was stemmed
almost immediately by the Count of Essen, who leapt up the steps to the
stage with a premonition of what had happened. He stooped to rip away
the mask from the face of the victim, and, beholding, as he had feared,
the livid countenance of his King, he stood up, himself almost as pale.

"Murder has been done!" he roared. "Let the doors be closed and guarded,
and let no one leave the theatre." Instantly wa