ning direct to the Winter Palace, the Czar paid his
usual visit to his cousin, the Grand Duchess Catherine. He quitted her
palace at two o'clock in his own carriage, accompanied by half a dozen
Cossacks. His officers followed in two sleighs. It was never known which
way he would take. He himself gave the order to the coachman. He knew
the streets as thoroughly as the driver himself; for he had always
walked in them unattended, unheeded, and unknown--had always mixed with
his subjects. This was no French monarch living in an earthly heaven
above his people. He knew--always had known--what men said to each other
in the streets.

He gave the order to go to the Winter Palace by way of the Catherine
Canal, which was not the direct way. Had he passed down the Newski
Prospect half of that great street would have been blown to the skies.
The road running by the side of the Catherine Canal was in 1881 a quiet
enough thoroughfare, with large houses staring blankly across the frozen
canal. The canal itself was none too clean a sight, for the snow was old
and soiled and strewed with refuse. In some places there were gardens
between the road and the waterways, but most of its length was bounded
by a low wall and a railing.

The road itself was almost deserted. The side streets of St. Petersburg
are quieter than the smaller thoroughfares of any other city in the
world. A confectioner's boy was alone on the pavement, hurrying along
and whistling as he went on his Sunday errand of delivery. He hardly
glanced at the carriage that sped past him. Perhaps he saw a man looking
over the low wall at the approach of the cavalcade. Perhaps he saw the
bomb thrown and heard the deafening report. Though none can say what he
heard or saw at that minute, for he was dead the next.

The bomb had fallen under the carriage at the back. A Cossack and his
horse, following the imperial conveyance, were instantly killed. The
Czar stepped out from amid the debris on to the torn and riven snow.
He stumbled, and took a proffered arm. They found blood on the cushions
afterwards. At that moment the only thought in his mind seemed to be
anger, and he glanced at the dying Cossack--at the dead baker-boy. The
pavement and the road were strewn with wounded--some lying quite still,
others attempting to lift themselves with numbed and charred limbs. It
was very cold.

Ryssakoff, who had thrown the bomb, was already in the hands of his
captors. Had the crowd been la