One might stare at
him, then, as at a serf's corpse; for he who had scared Europe during
thirty years lay before us that day as a poor lump of chilled brain and
withered muscle. And we stood by, when, amid chanting and flare of
torches and roll of cannon, his sons wrapped him in his shroud of gold
thread, and lowered him into the tomb of his fathers.
But there was shown in those days far greater tribute than the prayers
of bishops or the reverence of ambassadors. Massed about the Winter
Palace and the Fortress of Peter and Paul, stood thousands on thousands
who, in far-distant serf-huts, had put on their best, had toiled wearily
to the capital to give their last mute thanks to one who for years had
stood between their welfare and their owners' greed. Sad that he had not
done more. Yet they knew that he had wished their freedom and loathed
their wrongs; for that came up the tribute of millions.
The new Emperor, Alexander II, had never been hoped for as one who could
light the nation from his brain; the only hope was that he might warm
the nation somewhat from his heart.
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