Temple took one half the circle, I the other, riding through the attentive horsemen and carriage-lines, and making sure the face we sought was absent, more or less discomposing everybody.  The poet finished his ode; he was cheered, of course.  Mightily relieved, I beheld the band resuming their instruments, for the cheering resembled a senseless beating on brass shields.  I felt that we English could do it better.  Temple from across the sector of the circle, running about two feet in front of the statue, called aloud,

‘Richie! he’s not here!’

‘Not here!’ cried I.

The people gazed up at us, wondering at the tongue we talked.

’Richie! now let ‘s lead these fellows off with a tiptop cheer!’

Little Temple crowed lustily.

The head of the statue turned from Temple to me.

I found the people falling back with amazed exclamations.  I—­so prepossessed was I—­simply stared at the sudden-flashing white of the statue’s eyes.  The eyes, from being an instant ago dull carved balls, were animated.  They were fixed on me.  I was unable to give out a breath.  Its chest heaved; both bronze hands struck against the bosom.

‘Richmond! my son!  Richie!  Harry Richmond!  Richmond Roy!’

That was what the statue gave forth.

My head was like a ringing pan.  I knew it was my father, but my father with death and strangeness, earth, metal, about him; and his voice was like a human cry contending with earth and metal-mine was stifled.  I saw him descend.  I dismounted.  We met at the ropes and embraced.  All his figure was stiff, smooth, cold.  My arms slid on him.  Each time he spoke I thought it an unnatural thing:  I myself had not spoken once.

After glancing by hazard at the empty saddle of the bronze horse, I called to mind more clearly the appalling circumstance which had stupefied the whole crowd.  They had heard a statue speak—­had seen a figure of bronze walk.  For them it was the ancestor of their prince; it was the famous dead old warrior of a hundred and seventy years ago set thus in motion.  Imagine the behaviour of people round a slain tiger that does not compel them to fly, and may yet stretch out a dreadful paw!  Much so they pressed for a nearer sight of its walnut visage, and shrank in the act.  Perhaps I shared some of their sensations.  I cannot tell:  my sensations were tranced.  There was no warmth to revive me in the gauntlet I clasped.  I looked up at the sky, thinking that it had fallen dark.

CHAPTER XVII

MY FATHER BREATHES, MOVES, AND SPEAKS

The people broke away from us like furrowed water as we advanced on each side of the ropes toward the margravine’s carriage.