"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.
The rabble poured in at the open door, screaming and shouting.
Bloodstained, ragged, wild with the madness of murder, they crowded to
the barricade. There they stopped, gazing stupidly at Paul.
"The Moscow Doctor--the Moscow Doctor!" passed from lip to lip. It was
the women who shouted it the loudest. Like the wind through a forest it
swept out of the room and down the stairs. Those crowding up pushed on
and uttered the words as they came. The room was packed with them.
"Yes!" shouted Steinmetz, at the top of his great voice, "and the
prince!"
He knew the note to strike, and struck with a sure hand. The barricade
was torn aside, and the people swept forward, falling on their knees,
grovelling at Paul's feet, kissing the hem of his garment, seizing his
strong hands in theirs.
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