The aide-de-camp, who knew the Prince, recognized that this was an
occasion for speed. When the Prince, mounted, arrived at the
barracks, the dragoons were drawn up-awaiting him. He moved them off
towards the Jewish quarter at the trot. The streets echoed their
hoof-beats, and little time elapsed before they were on the skirts of
the mob. The Prince spurred alongside a watching police-officer.

"A lady!" repeated the officer, in amazement. "I have seen no lady,
your Excellency. But the principal--er--disorder is in the street
behind the church. The Jews are making no resistance at all."

The Prince pushed on, and came with his dragoons at the rear of the
mob. With a fine Russian callousness he thrust into it, his horses
clearing a way for themselves and bowling men to right and left. The
street was in darkness and resounded with violence. Standing in his
stirrups and peering ahead, the Prince realized that he might ride
Truda down without ever seeing her.

He leaned back and caught his aide-de-camp by the arm.

"We must have light," he shouted. "Dismount a dozen men and fire a
house."

At the order, men swung from their saddles, and in a few minutes the
house was ablaze; its windows, red with fire, cast a dancing glow on
the tumult of the street. They pressed on, the fire sparkling on
their accoutrements, and on the housetops cowering Jews broke into
tremblings at a wild hope that here was salvation. The Prince peered
anxiously about, unconcerned at all the savagery that was unloosened
to each side of him. He did not pause to aid a woman dragged