Fatio watched in fascination: a squadron of mounted Blue Guards took off hell-for-leather up the beach, galloping in pursuit of the Prince. Sailors were sprinting down towards the waterfront, the gunners on the harbor batteries were loading their cannons. Anyone with a loaded firearm was shooting in the air; but the Prince, far away in a cosmos of wind and surf, could not hear them. 'I suppose we belong in the category of ‘others,'' Fatio said, a bit dejectedly. 'It will be all right, I suppose . . . those cavalrymen will catch up to him anon.'