Then, from the distant Castle came the sound of shouts, crawling up the
long line of spectators for the full length of the avenue to the eager
throng in Regengetz Circus, swelling and growing louder as the news came
that the Prince had ridden forth from the gates. Necks were craned, rapt
eyes peered down the tree-topped boulevard, glad voices cried out
tidings to those in the background. The Prince was coming!
Bonny, adorable Prince Robin!
Down the broad avenue came the Royal Military Band, heading the
brilliant procession. Banners were flying; gold and silver standards
gleamed in the van of the noble cavalcade; brilliantly uniformed
cuirassiers and dragoons on gaily caparisoned horses formed a gilded
phalanx that filled the distant end of the street, slowly creeping down
upon the waiting thousands, drawing nearer and nearer to the spot of
doom.
A stately, noble, inspiring procession it was that swept toward the
Plaza. The love of the people for their little Prince welled up and
overflowed in great waves of acclamation. Pomp and display, gold and
fine raiment were but the creation of man; Prince Robin was, to them,
the choicest creation of God. He was their Prince!
On came the splendid phalanx of guardsmen, followed by rigid infantrymen
in measured tread; the clattering of horses' hoofs, the beat of drums,
the clanking of scabbards and the jangling of royal banners, rising even
above the hum of eager voices.
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