His arm was outstretched steadily.  A loud report, a little puff of smoke shooting upward to the gilded ceiling, and for one brief moment the crowd stood still, watching one of their ringleaders, who was turning and twisting on his side half a dozen steps from the bottom.

The man writhed in silence with his hand to his breast, and the crowd stood aghast.  He held up his hand and gazed at it with a queer stupefaction.  The blood dripped from his fingers.  Then his chin went up as if some one was gripping the back of his neck.  He turned over slowly and rolled to the bottom of the stairs.

Then Paul raised his voice.

“Listen to me!” he said.

But he got no farther, for some one shot at him from the background, over the frantic heads of the others, and missed him.  The bullet lodged in the wall at the head of the stairs, in the jamb of the gorgeous door-way.  It is there to-day.

There was a yell of hatred, and an ugly charge toward the stairs; but the sight of the two revolvers held them there—­motionless for a few moments.  Those in front pushed back, while the shouters in the safe background urged them forward by word and gesture.

Two men holding a hundred in check!  But one of the two was a prince, which makes all the difference, and will continue to make that difference, despite halfpenny journalism, until the end of the world.

“What do you want?” cried Paul.

“Oh, I will wait!” he shouted, in the next pause.  “There is plenty of time—­when you are tired of shouting.”

Several of them proceeded to tell him what they wanted.  An old story, too stale for repetition here.  Paul recognized in the din of many voices the tinkling arguments of the professional agitator all the world over—­the cry of “Equality!  Equality!” when men are obviously created unequal.

“Look out!” said Paul; “I believe they are going to make a rush.”

All the while the foremost men were edging toward the stairs, while the densely packed throng at the back were struggling among themselves.  In the passages behind, some were yelling and screaming with a wild intonation which Steinmetz recognized.  He had been through the Commune.

“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.