There was a sudden silence; the crowd evacuated the platform and drew back. Above there was left only Mazaud, his bell in his hand, confused and at a loss what to do, Daimon, leaning on the table, and Prokop, on whose neck there was still hanging the dark-haired Mænad.
“Rossi,” cried a number of voices. “Down with him! Down with Rosso!” The young man on the platform looked wildly round the room with his burning eyes. “Let nobody move! Mezierski wants to shoot at me. I shall throw it,” he shouted and flourished the box.
The crowd recoiled, growling like an enraged animal. Two or three people put up their hands, and others followed them. There was a moment of oppressive silence.
“Get down,” shouted old Mazaud. “Who gave you permission to speak?”
“I shall throw it,” threatened Rosso, taut like a bow.
“This is against the regulations,” said Mazaud excitedly. “I protest and . . . leave the chair.” He threw the bell on the ground and stepped down from the platform.
“Bravo, Mazaud,” said an ironical voice. “You’ve helped him.”
“Silence,” cried Rosso, and threw back the hair from his forehead. “I’m speaking. Comrade Krakatit has told us: Your moment will come and you will explode; make room for this unique moment. Good, I’ve taken his words to heart.”
“It wasn’t meant like that!”
“Long live Krakatit!”
