rger, had the official element been
weaker, he would have been torn to pieces then and there. The Czar went
towards him. Some say that he spoke to him. But no clear account of
those few moments was ever obtained. The noise, the confusion, the
terror of it seemed to have deadened the faculties of all who took part
in this tragedy, and they could only act mechanically, as men who were
walking in their sleep.

Already a crowd had collected. Every moment added to its numbers.

"Stand back! Stand back! A second bomb is coming!" cried more than one
voice. There are a hundred witnesses ready to testify that they heard
this strange warning. But no man seemed to heed it. There are moments in
the lives of men when their contempt for death raises them at one bound
to the heights of immortality.

Those around the Czar urged him to quit the spot at once. In such a
crowd of people there must be some enemies. At last he turned and went
towards the sleigh which had been brought forward to take the place of
the shattered carriage. He was pale now, and walked with an effort.

The onlookers stood aside to make a passage for him. Many raised their
hats, and made silent manifestations of their respect and pity.

One man, alone, stood with folded arms, hat on head, and watched the
Czar. He was on the pavement, with his back to the iron gate leading to
the canal. The pavement was not six feet wide, and the Czar came along
it towards him. For a moment they faced each other. Then the freed
son of the serf raised both hands and threw his missile on the stones
between them--at the feet of the man who had cut the chain of his
slavery.

It was the serf who shrieked. The Emperor uttered no plaint. A puff of
white-gray smoke rose to heaven. And those who watched there no doubt
took note of it.

A shower of snow and human debris was thrown into the air. The very
stones of the pavement were displaced.

The Emperor was on the ground against the railings. He was blind. One
leg was gone, the other torn and mutilated to the hip. It was pitiful.
He uttered no sound, but sought to move his bare limbs on the snow.

This was the end--the payment. He discharged his debt without a murmur.
He had done the right--against the counsel of the wise, against
his crown and his own greatness, against his purse and his father's
teaching. He had followed the dictates of his own conscience. He had
done more than any other Czar, before or since, for the good of Rus