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 larger, 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 Russia.  And this was the payment!