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Title: The rebellion of the Princess

Author: Mary Imlay Taylor

Release date: May 12, 2024 [eBook #73608]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: McCLure, Phillips & Co, 1903

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REBELLION OF THE PRINCESS ***

THE REBELLION OF THE
PRINCESS

OTHER BOOKS
BY M. IMLAY TAYLOR

On the Red Staircase
The House of the Wizard
The Cardinal’s Musketeer
An Imperial Lover
A Yankee Volunteer
Anne Scarlett
The Cobbler of Nimes
Little Mistress Goodhope and Other Fairy Tales

The Rebellion of
the Princess

By
M. Imlay Taylor

Mc. Clure, Phillips & Co.
New York
1903

Copyright, 1903, by

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

Published, March, 1903, R

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | The Major-domo’s Whip, | 1
II. | The Miniature, | 14
III. | The Boyar Kurakin, | 23
IV. | The Making of a Friend, | 35
V. | The Princess Daria, | 45
VI. | The Dwarf, | 56
VII. | The Summons, | 66
VIII. | The Great Czarevna, | 73
IX. | I Make a Prisoner, | 81
X. | In the Garden of the Kremlin, | 89
XI. | The Plot Thickens, | 98
XII. | Advotia as an Interpreter, | 104
XIII. | The Tocsin, | 110
XIV. | A Desperate Climb, | 121
XV. | The Princess and the Czarevna, | 129
XVI. | The Painted Gallery, | 138
XVII. | Crowned with Rue, | 147
XVIII. | An Hour of Peril, | 155
XIX. | At Nightfall, | 163
XX. | The Escape, | 174
XXI. | The Steward’s Revenge, | 182
XXII. | A Drunken Orgy, | 189
XXIII. | A Sprig of Rue, | 199
XXIV. | Galitsyn, | 206
XXV. | Michaud’s Repentance, | 216
XXVI. | Maluta Buys Two Souls, | 224
XXVII. | “Is It Thou?” | 234
XXVIII. | The Hut on the Road, | 243
XXIX. | A Duel with Swords, | 254
XXX. | The Prince Voronin, | 261
XXXI. | Vassalissa, | 268
XXXII. | The Man with the Purple Scar, | 277
XXXIII. | I Sow Dissension, | 285
XXXIV. | A Boyar’s Funeral, | 293
XXXV. | The Dwarf and I, | 301
XXXVI. | The Princess, | 309
XXXVII. | The Woman, | 316

THE REBELLION OF THE
PRINCESS

I: THE MAJOR-DOMO’S WHIP

FROM my post at the window I could look down upon the court-yard of the palace of the Boyar Kurakin. Although it was early in May, it was a cold day in Moscow, and the sun shone obliquely into the yard, cut off as it was by the walls of two houses. The black mud of winter had not dried off the centre of the court, and there was ice in the corner by the water-butts, and ice hung, too, on the north side of the roof, under the eaves, like the ragged beard of the old man of the north, Moroz Treskun, or the Crackling Frost, as the moujik names him, while above, around the great chimney, a group of ravens were huddled together in the sun, preening their plumage and croaking now and then in a solemn fashion.

The boyar’s house was large, and shaped like a Greek cross, the kitchen and the servants’ quarters opening on the court, which was crowded now with the serfs, for the steward of the household was giving one of the varlets a taste of the whip. The doors and windows of the kitchen gaped wide, filled with curious spectators; some, I fancied, half in sympathy with the poor rogue who squealed under the lash, and others applauding the major-domo, whether from fear or love I knew not. He was a burly fellow with a red head and a short, red-bearded, fierce-eyed countenance, and had the serf by the waistband with one giant hand and with the other he laid the whip on his bare back, leaving a long welt across the brown flesh with every cut. The slave howled and writhed, the whip cracked, the spectators applauded or jeered, as fancy seized them, and then, quite suddenly, there was a diversion.

The water-butts were in the corner at the steward’s back, and a dwarf darted out from behind them, quick as a wasp, and cut at the major-domo’s calves with a leather thong and was back under cover before the big man could wheel around. And he, thinking that he had cut his own legs with the long end of his lash, and furious at the titter of the servants, laid it on the poor serf with redoubled venom until the blood ran. Meanwhile the dwarf executed a weird dance of triumph on the ice by the water-butts, mocking the steward in dumb show, and beating an imaginary victim, his thin cheeks blown out and his brows knotted, to the delight of his audience, thus furnished with a double entertainment. He was one of those wretched little creatures that haunted Moscow, the playthings and spies of the courtiers, and he was unusually small, even for a dwarf, with a strange pointed face, white and three-cornered, like a patch of paper, and with great ears shaped like the leaves of a linden standing out from his head as if upon stems; it was by these ears that I always knew him afterwards, even in the crowd of court midgets. Encouraged by the success and the private applause, the little wretch darted out again and repeated the performance of whipping the steward’s legs, while the men and women held their sides with laughter, because the fat beast danced and swore and lashed, like one beside himself.

But it was an ill jest for the rogue in his clutches, and, minded to end their sport, I shouted to him, in Russ, to look behind the water-butts for the wasp. The fat fool gaped at me in amazement, and the dwarf, darting from his covert, was running full speed for the kitchen before he spied him and made after him. But one of the men, willing to save the little beast, no doubt for the sake of the laugh, tripped the major-domo as if by accident, and down he went in the mud of the court-yard, bellowing and splashing like a whale.

I laughed until the tears came into my eyes, and whether he heard me, or thought I had some hand in it, I know not, but when he got to his feet, all bedaubed with mud and green slime, he shook his two great fists at me and shrieked defiance; at which I laughed the more. His face grew as red as his beard.

“Come down, you dog of a tinsmith!” he shouted, cracking his whip in the dirt. “Come down, and I’ll take the hide off your back!”

I laughed again; for the life of me, I could not be angry with the wretch. His burly figure and his impotent rage only aroused my contempt, and I heeded his threats and his gestures as little as I did the mirth of the kitchen behind him. I know not how long he would have continued his pantomime, if it had not been for another attack of his inveterate enemy. While he was shouting at me I saw the ravens rise suddenly from the roof with a whir of black wings, and the dwarf came dancing along on the very verge of the eaves. He had evidently dropped from the windows of the terem, the women’s quarters, which there, as usual, occupied a separate upper story of wood, which overlooked the flat roof of the wing. The little creature executed a fandango over the steward’s head and then suddenly let fly a pebble, with such accurate aim that he took the fat man fairly under his left ear. He was alive to dangers now, however, and, discovering his foe, started for the kitchen-door with a bound, while the dwarf, waiting only for him to disappear, came sliding down over the edge of the roof, and swinging by his long arms he dropped, with marvellous agility, on the ledge of the window below, and from there, swinging again, monkey-fashion, on the window of the lower story, he finally dropped into the yard, amidst a burst of applause from the serfs. Meanwhile, the major-domo, arriving at last at the window over the roof, looked out in baffled fury, and seeing me still at my post, cursed me in Russ and two or three other dialects. “O meat for dogs!” he bellowed, “’tis through some signalling of yours, and I’ll pay you for it! I will—by the beard of the Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk! May the black god smite you!”

I shrugged my shoulders and left the window in disgust. So he called me meat for dogs and a tinsmith; that was the cream of the jest! By Saint Denis, a tinsmith—I, Jéhan de Marle, Marquis de Cernay, an officer of the household troops of Louis XIV., King of France, and cousin to the Duc de Richelieu! Yet, after all, the varlet had some reason for his gibe, for did I not figure in Moscow as the apprentice of Maître le Bastien, the goldsmith of Paris? Ah, and thereby hangs a tale!

Twelve months before, my evil star took me to Paris for Easter. I had been in Normandy, on my estates, and had served in the Palatinate. Before that I won distinction, under the very eye of the king, at Ghent and Ypres, and the saying at court was that no service paid out of his sight, while in it there was such a scramble that Spinola bit the royal finger—when he saluted the king’s hand—to make his mark among the herd of sycophants. But, as it happened, the king noticed me without the bite, though afterwards I paid for the recognition.

It was then scarcely three years after the Peace of Nimequen; France was on a pinnacle of glory; Strasburg had fallen without a shot, and Catinet had entered Casale. King Charles the Second of England had taken his wages with some grumblings, and retired from the war, and the Prince of Orange had been forced to yield to the Estates of Holland and conclude the peace; the King of France held a line of towns from Dunkerque to the Meuse, and Spain was disarmed. Louis had maintained the war against Europe and was victorious; “singly against all,” as Louvois said. It was a season of glory and joy for every Frenchman, and especially for every French soldier.

But what of it? What if fortune seemed to smile, and the rewards of courage were within my grasp; what of it? I say. My evil star took me to Paris, and all the world was at the festival. Mme. de Montespan, the king’s mistress, was at dagger’s point with Mme. de Maintenon, who was the governess of her children and the rising star, as all the world knew; for “the Star of Quanto,” as they called Mme. de Montespan, was near to setting, though she could still afford to lose and win again, four millions—in one night—at basset.

There also was M. le Vicomte d’Argenson, taken by his evil star—a deadly evil one it proved—to Paris and to me. He was cousin to Mme. de Montespan, and as black-hearted a knave as ever wore a velvet coat and clean ruffles at court, and that, as I would have you know, is saying much. Ah, well! monsieur and I were in Paris, and ’twas Easter week, and Mme. de Montbazon gave a ball at the Hôtel de Montbazon. It was one of the most magnificent fêtes in Paris; wine flowed in the kennel of the Rue de Bethisi, so they said, and madame gave a silver lily to each of her guests, while Vatel himself was superintending in the kitchen. The lily for the young Duchess of Burgundy was of gold set with pearls and diamonds. The world was there, great and small, and one little maid from Provence, a dependent of the Princess de Condé, country-bred and honest, as I chanced to know, although she had an old hag of a mother who would have sold her soul to make a fine match for her daughter, and had even been to that great man, Bontemps, the king’s chief valet, to inquire about the possibilities of securing a rich husband. But that is neither here nor there.

It all happened at the very height of the ball, and it was thus I lost my silver lily. I was on the grand staircase, and at the landing was M. d’Argenson, with a throng of rufflers, waiting for the king. And, at the moment, as ill luck would have it, the little maid from Provence, Mlle. Lamoignon, came up the stairs, her face aglow with pleasure and looking, as I thought, not unlike a Provençal rose herself. Satan being in the heart of M. le Vicomte, doubtless it was his prompting that made the man go out, before us all, to meet the child and try to kiss her; at which she cried out, resisting with all her might, and the beaux on the landing laughed. M. d’Argenson, being in liquor and angered, I take it, by the titter behind him, turned on the girl and grossly insulted her before us all. I was but two steps above them and, quick as a flash, I caught monsieur by the shoulders, and flinging him back against the wall with one hand, with the other I slapped my glove in his face. D’Argenson was a mixture of bully and coward, and had his sword out in a trice, and was at me, the others crying to us that the king was coming. But I caught his rapier and, breaking it across my knee, flung the fragments over the balustrade with a gibe, and he, with the face of a fury, cursed me, standing on the same step, while little mademoiselle cowered under my arm like a frightened pigeon.

“Monsieur will pay for it—with blood!” screamed M. le Vicomte, growing purple above his cravat.

“Pish!” I retorted, laughing in his face. “Jéhan de Cernay cares not for vermin.”

“Coward!” he said, and struck me on the side where mademoiselle cowered, so that I could not ward off the blow, and it slanted on my cheek.

Then the devil rose in me; I thrust her away, and catching him about the waist, flung him headlong on the stairs, just as the ushers in the lower hall began to shout, “The king, the king!”

M. de Mazarin and M. de Besanvel, my friends, hustled me off out of sight, and there was pandemonium on the staircase! Mme. de Montbazon furious and in tears because of the fracas, Mlle. Lamoignon hysterical, and M. le Vicomte, with a bruised head and a black eye, shrieking for vengeance. To make a long story short, the next morning I received monsieur’s cartel at my lodgings, and being privately warned by M. de Mazarin that the king was angry and I might look for the provost-marshal, I lost no time in choosing the hour and the weapons. We fought that day in the Place Royale with swords. What would you? I was accounted one of the best swordsmen in France, and I had the advantage of being indifferent. M. de Besanvel was with me and M. de Palisot with him. So far my evil star shone propitious and sparkled, for monsieur’s nerves were unstrung and his head sore.

I remember the scene quite well. The spring was forward; it was Thursday in Easter week, and the trees were feathery with green and the violets bloomed. ’Twas afternoon, and long shadows fell aslant the green turf and the sun was warm. Monsieur, stripped of coat and waistcoat, confronted me in a white ruffled shirt and trousers of blue satin, with ruffles of point de Venise, and silk stockings and red-heeled slippers. I saw his bloodshot eyes and his purple lips, and we crossed swords, while M. de Besanvel engaged M. de Palisot. It was not long; I spitted him at the second round—my famous thrust over the guard—and I saw him die without regret—vermin!

That was the end of it. We left him in the arms of the surgeon and M. de Palisot, who got but a scratch from Besanvel, and I rode post-haste from Paris with his majesty’s provost-marshal at my heels—and all for a girl I did not know. Saint Denis, such is life!

It seemed that Mme. de Montespan, the handsome she-devil, was hot for my ruin, and would give the king no rest; so Paris would not hold me, nor Normandy, nor France. In this dilemma I bethought me of Maître le Bastien, the goldsmith, then on his way to Moscow, summoned thither by Prince Basil Galitsyn. Maître le Bastien was my father’s friend and mine, and one whom I had benefited in more ways than one; to him therefore I went. Was not a journey to Russia and, mayhap, an adventure or two, better than a dull exile over seas? To protect Maître le Bastien from trouble, I travelled under an assumed name; I had the passports of his apprentice, Raoul,—who fell ill of the small-pox, the week before we left Paris,—and no one suspected my disguise unless it was the little varlet, Michaud, who hated me from the first. Thus out of Paris, and its envy and favour, I dropped into the northern capital, and found it less interesting than I had hoped—which shows that a man sees but an inch beyond his own nose.

I had been in Moscow now nearly a year, and the Czar Feodor was just dead and the two factions—the Naryshkins and the Miloslavskys—were quarrelling to the knife over the succession to the throne, and the quarrel was all the more bitter because it was a family one. It came about in this way. The Czar Alexis the Débonair married first a Miloslavsky, by whom he had several children, among them the Czar Feodor, his successor, but just dead; then Alexis had married a second wife, the young and beautiful Natalia Naryshkin, who became the mother of a boy and a girl. At the death of Feodor his natural successor would have been his own brother, Ivan, but Ivan was weak-minded and blind, and the Patriarch and the Naryshkins stirred up the populace to elect Natalia’s boy, Peter, a lad of nine. But the victory, though apparently easy, was destined to bear black fruit, for behind Ivan, the idiot, was his clever and daring sister, the Czarevna Sophia, who wanted the throne herself, and supporting her was her clever cousin, Ivan Miloslavsky, and Prince Basil Galitsyn, one of the most enlightened of the young Russian statesmen. And the balance of power seemed to be for the time with the Streltsi, or national guard, the only military organization of Russia, and both parties were intriguing with the soldiers, who, dissatisfied with their officers, their pay in arrears, and some of their hereditary privileges threatened by political changes, were ripe for mischief. Trouble growled deep and loud in the lanes and alleys of Moscow; in the palaces and the hovels of its three towns were whisperings, and terror, and intrigue.

But little I cared for all this, and time hung heavy on my hands, for I had many dull hours, and it was in one of these that I watched the dwarf torment the steward, and found the scene amusing.

I was still pacing the workshop in an idle mood when Michaud, the apprentice, found me.

“Monsieur,” he said, with his air of knowing more than he chose to tell, “two ladies are below, determined to see the master.”

“Of what sort, Michaud?” I asked; “old or young, fair or fat?”

“How can I tell, monsieur,” he replied, with a shrug, “they are hooded as close as an ugly nun.”

I laughed.

“Maître le Bastien shall not have all the fun,” I said; “let them come up, Michaud, and not a word to tell them I am not the master goldsmith.”

He gave me an odd look and went out, and presently I heard his step again on the stairs, and with it the rustle of skirts and the sound of soft laughter.

“So!” I said to myself, “the jest is not all on one side.”

II: THE MINIATURE

MICHAUD opened the door and stood back to admit my visitors, casting another look of intelligence at me. But the two did not enter at once; instead, there was much ado, whispers and suppressed laughter in the hall, one hanging back and one pushing forward, until my curiosity was alive, and I stood waiting with my eyes on the door. At last, with another ripple of laughter, they came in; two slight figures, muffled in the long, straight Russian cloaks, fur-edged, with conical hoods over their heads, their features as completely concealed as any nun’s of Port Royal. Determined to play my rôle of goldsmith to the life, I had hastily picked up a mallet and a bit of beaten gold, and, with these in my hands, I made a becoming obeisance. Both the cloaked figures responded, and here at once I noted a difference between them which no similarity of dress could disguise: the taller of the two inclined her hooded head with the air of a queen, the smaller one nodded at me with a suggestion of infinite good humour. They remained silent,—struck dumb, no doubt, at their own daring,—and we three stood confronting each other without a word. It was evident that the pause might be eternal, and I heard Michaud shuffling his feet outside the door; the rogue was listening. I had learned to speak Russian fairly well and I called it to my aid.

“How can I serve you, madame?” I said, awkwardly enough, I suspect, for the shorter girl tittered, while the taller one silenced her with a gesture, and addressed me in excellent French.

“You are a goldsmith, monsieur,” she said, in a clear voice, her accent sweet rather than harsh. “I would have this locket opened.”

As she spoke she held out a gold locket and chain which she had been hiding under her cloak. A glance told me that it was of great value, and a rare piece of workmanship, encrusted with precious jewels, and shaped like a pear. I took it gingerly, knowing no more of a goldsmith’s trade than an unborn babe, and fairly caught in my own trap. Whether she saw my awkwardness or not, I could not tell, but she drew back a little, seeming to examine me with curious eyes. I suddenly remembered my hands, when I became aware that both girls were looking at them; my signet was on my right hand, and their sharp eyes had discovered it, beyond a doubt; but what of it? They knew nothing of French heraldry—or as little as I knew of them, and I was more anxious than ever to peep under those hoods. Meanwhile, in spite of my busy thoughts, I was trying in vain to find an opening in the trinket. It showed not a crevice, but lay in my hand, a marvellous golden pear, gleaming with rubies and diamonds and sapphires, and with a crest that I could not decipher on its lower end.

“It baffles you, monsieur,” remarked the taller maiden, a trifle coldly.

The perspiration gathered on my brow; what, in the name of the saints, could I do with it? And I was figuring as a master goldsmith with the abominable thing lying sealed in my hand. The smaller nymph began to shake with laughter again under her cloak.

“’Tis magic, Daria,” she said, with the merriest laugh in the world, her hood slipping back enough to disclose the rosy, roguish face of a girl of sixteen or seventeen, with a pair of eyes as blue as the sky.

“I will have it open for all that,” retorted her companion imperiously. “Monsieur, there is a secret spring.”

“Precisely, mademoiselle,” I replied, with a bow, “so secret that ’twill not confide in a stranger.”

At this both laughed a little, but I saw that mademoiselle the imperious was growing impatient, and, in desperation, I turned the locket over and over, and as I did so my eye caught sight of the Russian Imperial arms on the small end of the pear, where a golden clasp represented the stem. In twisting the trinket thus in my fingers I must have pressed a spring, for lo! the pear fell apart and mademoiselle clapped her hands.

“The problem is solved,” she cried, while both of them craned their necks to look at the two pieces.

These already riveted my attention; in one side was a lock of hair and in the other a miniature that no one in Moscow could mistake, flattered though it was. It was the face of the dead Czar’s sister, her serene highness Sophia Alexeievna. There was an exclamation, either of surprise or pleasure, from one of the girls, and as I cast a covert glance at them I discovered that both hoods had been slightly displaced, and I saw the features of the taller of the two. Saint Denis, what a face! Young, beautiful, with the spirit of an empress; the dark eyes, keen and brilliant, the lips and cheeks deeply coloured, the brows sharply defined, the forehead like milk. My glance was so searching and so earnest that mademoiselle looked up and, encountering it, flashed me a look of such hauteur as I had never before seen in the eyes of woman, but she disdained to draw her hood. Meanwhile, the smaller and merrier beauty had given away to delight at the adventure.

“Take out the portrait, monsieur,” she said; “I have one here to put in its stead.”

“Nay,” interposed Mlle. Daria. “I will have none of it, Lissa; the jest has gone too far.”

“Daria, Daria!” cried the other, forgetful of me, “thou art afraid! thou, Daria Kirilovna!”

“I am not!” cried mademoiselle with defiance, tossing her head; “but I despise the trick.”

“Oh, sweetheart, thou——” Lissa broke off under a lightning glance from the dark eyes, for Mlle. Daria had remembered me.

But the merry damsel was not to be silenced; plucking at her companion’s cloak, she drew her off into the corner and whispered, and laughed, and entreated, apparently between jest and earnest, while I pretended to examine the miniature, all the while cudgelling my brains for a solution of this escapade, so rare was it for girls to be out on an adventure in Moscow, and girls too, of rank, for no one could doubt that who looked at them and heard them speak. Meanwhile Daria had been melting under the persuasion of the fair manœuvrer, and she came back slowly across the room, permitting rather than encouraging Lissa, who now took the lead.

“Prithee, monsieur,” she said,—she too, spoke French, though with a strong accent,—“take out that portrait for us and substitute this.” As she held out her hand her companion made a sudden motion as if to snatch the bit of ivory from it, but restrained herself and let Lissa hand me a miniature.

Then I understood mademoiselle’s hesitation, for the face limned on the ivory, more or less faithfully, was her own. Suppressing my surprise, I put it down on a table and began the delicate task of lifting the other miniature from its setting, and a task it was for my awkward fingers. With no knowledge of such baubles, and as little dexterity as a bear, I fully expected to break the picture in pieces, but, as luck would have it, either the ivory was already loose in its setting, or I again hit upon some secret spring, and out fell Sophia, just escaping annihilation by falling on Maître le Bastien’s taffety cloak that lay on the table. But now was the rub, for I had no notion of how I should set mademoiselle’s face in the room where Sophia’s had been, and both girls hung on my movements with breathless interest. I took up the bit of ivory with a gingerly touch and cautiously dropped it into the gaping setting, and lo! success beyond my wildest hopes. It seemed to sink into place, as if by magic, and Mlle. Lissa clapped her hands with delight.

“Good goldsmith!” she cried, beaming upon me. “What a fair exchange!”

“Hush, Vassalissa!” commanded Mlle. Daria; “for shame!”

But Lissa would not be suppressed.

“And is it not?” she cried mischievously. “Ah, bah; what a fright!” and she pointed derisively at Sophia’s portrait. “Come, come, Daria, let us have our frolic while we may!”

“Exactly so, while we may!” retorted Daria grimly; “but afterwards, my dear,” and she smiled a little.

“The deluge,” replied Vassalissa, laughing. “Ah, good master goldsmith, give us the trinket that we may get into the ark.”

But here was the difficulty; I could not fasten the miniature in place, nor could I for the life of me close the locket. The pear was twain and like to be so, as far as I could see, to the end of the world, and Mlle. Daria began to cast suspicious glances at me. I think, for the second time, she doubted that I was a goldsmith.

“Time presses, monsieur,” she said imperiously; “let us have it, as speedily as may be.”

I was red in the face and almost out of temper, but I saw no escape.

“Mademoiselle must leave it with me,” I replied as blandly as I could; “it will take time to secure the portrait and reclasp the locket.”

“Impossible!” said Daria; “we must have it now, monsieur; the matter is imperative.”

I saw that she was uneasy, and I thought that Vassalissa was a little alarmed; both girls pressed forward eagerly.

“We must have it!” they protested.

I took the bull by the horns. “Certainly, mademoiselle,” I said with a bow, “but it will not be completed or fastened,” and I held out the two pieces of that ill-starred pear with a malicious smile.

They looked at each other and at me for a moment with blank faces, and then they broke out with irresistible, delicious, rippling laughter.

“What on earth shall we do?” cried Vassalissa; “the deluge and no ark! Monsieur, we have a fable that when the Evil One, in the form of a mouse, gnawed a hole in the ark, Uzh, the snake, saved the ship by thrusting his head into the place. Find us a snake therefore, good goldsmith, or our ark will surely sink. Mend us the pear, or——”

“Pshaw!” interrupted Mlle. Daria, with an imperious gesture, “what difference? I care not a straw! Finish it, monsieur, and send it to me at your leisure.”

“Daria!” sharply ejaculated her smaller companion, suddenly grown cautious.

And Daria bit her lip and turned crimson.

“Mademoiselle may trust me,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height, which compelled them both to look up at me.

She gave me a swift, penetrating glance, and her face, by nature haughty, suddenly relaxed and a smile, like sunshine, shone on it.

“I do, monsieur,” she said, with her queenly air. “You will send the locket, by a safe hand, to the house of the Prince Voronin, to be delivered only to me—the Princess Daria.”

Her companion fairly gasped, her blue eyes big with amazement, at mademoiselle’s daring.

“I will bring it with my own hand,” I said, with a profound bow.

And, as I spoke, there was a sharp knock at the door. Vassalissa started with a little shriek of nervous excitement, but Daria laughed.

“’Tis old Piotr,” she said.

As she spoke, the door opened and a tall, grey-haired Russian, wearing the dress of a boyar’s retainer, stood on the threshold.

“We have been here too long, little mistress,” he said in Russ, respectful, but impatient; “’tis neither safe nor wise.”

“Bear with us, Piotr,” said his mistress graciously; “’tis but a half hour under a whole moon; may not the children play?”

He shook his head, glancing with evident affection at the tall, girlish figure.

“Time waits for no man, Daria Kirilovna,” he said gravely, “and the morning is wiser than the evening.”[A]

“I come, I come!” she retorted, and with a gesture of farewell to me, she left the room, followed by Lissa, who cast a mischievous smile at me, and a doubtful glance at the trinket in my hands as she went out.

III: THE BOYAR KURAKIN

LEFT alone with the trinket, I forgot it in my meditation on the two girls, or rather, if the truth be told, on the one—the Princess Daria. Such beauty, such spirit, such dignity; the combination was rare, and in a Russian, brought up no doubt under the iron rule of some old Russian dragon of propriety, it was little short of a miracle. How came this perfect flower to bloom in a waste of snow? And how came she and the merry one on this strange expedition? There was some mischief afoot, but I could not fathom it, cudgel my brains as I would. They both seemed too young and too artless to be engaged in any very profound intrigue, and yet the portrait of the czarevna was an unusual possession to cast lightly and publicly aside; publicly, I say, because I was a stranger to them and might be, for all they knew, quite unworthy of trust. And how did they escape the vigilant watchfulness of a Russian household, where the women were kept in almost Oriental seclusion? It was true that the Czar Alexis the Débonair had modified the customs of the court in this respect, by the freedom he had allowed his young wife, Natalia Naryshkin, the mother of the newly elected Czar Peter. Yet it was undoubtedly an escapade for two Russian girls to visit the workshop of a stranger and a Frenchman, for the nation had no love for the French, and indeed a deep distrust of all foreigners.

But what of it, after all? I reflected, was it not better to remember the two pretty faces, the slender hands, the soft voices, the ripple of merry laughter? Saint Denis! ’twas worth something to have seen them! And I would see them again unless Jéhan de Cernay had assumed a coat of quite another colour from the one he had worn in France. As for Daria, she might well be a princess; she looked it, and no queen was ever more worthy a crown.

How she had graced even Maître le Bastien’s workshop, and transformed the old room into an enchanted palace! I looked about it now with a shrug; since she had left it, it had returned to its usual aspect, and was a workshop again and no more.

The house that Prince Galitsyn had given to Maître le Bastien stood in the Kitai-gorod, with the bazaars on one side, humming with life, like so many beehives, and on the other the palaces of the boyars, the official nobility of Moscow; and yonder were the golden domes and minarets of the Kremlin. The house itself was much like the others in Moscow—built of logs, the interstices stuffed with tow, and the roof also of wood; it was no marvel that there had been great fires, leaping from town to town, within the walls, and carrying terror and destruction with smoke and flame. Underground we had cellars for storing liquors and ice; and above these, on the ground floor, were the kitchen, refectory, and offices, while on the second floor were always the living rooms; the Chamber of the Cross, or private chapel, being in the centre, and a narrow stair led to the apartments above, usually set aside for the women, in a separate story of the house, and called the terem.

It was on the second floor that Maître le Bastien had his workshop, in a long room that had served as a nursery and playroom for the children of the Russian family who had previously occupied the dwelling. The windows faced north, and the room was well lighted and spacious, but very different from the goldsmith’s famous workshop on the Pont-au-Change, where all the lovers of his art in Paris flocked. I have seen Louvois there, and Luxemburg himself, with his hump and his pale face, and Monseigneur, dull and pompous, and the little Duchess of Burgundy with Mme. de Maintenon, then called the widow of Scarron, and the court ladies, Mme. de Mazarin and Mme. de Richelieu, and hundreds of others, and sometimes the great king himself. It was Le Bastien who made the famous bracelet for Mme. de Montespan, and Le Bastien who designed the great candelabra for the king’s table. It was the silver vase that he had made for Louis that he was to copy now for Prince Galitsyn to give, so it was whispered, to the Czarevna Sophia, she whose portrait lay on the folds of the old taffety cloak. The goldsmith had received other orders in Moscow, and had been making some models, too, that he purposed carrying back to France, so the workshop was not without its objects of interest, though bare enough compared with the marvels of that room on the Pont-au-Change.

Here in one corner was a candelabrum that was nearly finished for the Czar Feodor, when his majesty died so suddenly. It was a graceful piece, a full cubit in height, the figure of Hecate bearing a torch; it was to have been in solid silver, ornamented with gold. Near it was a bracelet of Russian amethysts, set in a design of clusters of grapes, the leaves of gold, studded with emeralds—so closely that they sparkled with green. Beyond was a salt-cellar, undertaken also for Prince Galitsyn, a shell upheld by two mermaids—in gold; but the most conspicuous object was the great vase, three cubits in height, of silver, with bas-reliefs of gold; on one side Venus and Mars, on the other Pluto and Persephone, and below a group of sirens formed the pedestal, their uplifted arms holding the vase, while around the top of it—which opened like the petals of a flower—was a marvellously fine design of Cupids at play. Though it was before my eyes all day, I often examined it and watched the work grow under the master’s skilful fingers, and I doubt not I should have been staring at it when Maître le Bastien returned, if it had not been for the fascination of that jewelled pear that I could not put out of my mind. And I was back at the table again, with the thing in my fingers, when the goldsmith entered the room.

Le Bastien was a man past middle age, with a noble head and fine face, which wore habitually an expression of calm reflection worthy a great philosopher. The man was indeed an artist and a sculptor of no mean order, who yet carried on his trade of goldsmith, and was reported rich in Paris. His dress became his reputation, being rich though simple in style, of dark velvet with rare lace at his throat and wrists, and a chain of gold about his neck, a marvel of his own workmanship, and I noticed that he wore on it to-day the icon that Prince Galitsyn had given him. He entered with his usual dignified and composed demeanour, greeting me pleasantly.

“I fear you have had a dull day, M. le Marquis,” he said, with his accustomed formality, for in private he always gave me my title, though in public I was “Raoul,” the apprentice; I think it would have hurt the good man to infringe on a single rule of courtesy, even in the privacy of his own closet.

“Far from it, Maître le Bastien,” I replied with a smile; “I have been receiving your fair visitors, and hold here a hostage for their return,” and I held up the pear.

The goldsmith looked at me in some surprise, and taking the locket turned it over in his hand, examining it curiously.

“Whence came this, monsieur?” he inquired, with evident interest, “and what is this talk of fair visitors? We are not on the Pont-au-Change.”

I laughed, enjoying his sober perplexity.

“No,” I responded, “but not even on the Pont-au-Change did you ever have a fairer visitor, and a princess at that,” and I proceeded to relate my experience with a relish for the surprise that I knew I was giving him.

But all the while, he was examining the pear with the minute attention of an expert, and when I was done, he closed it with an ease that made me envy his skill in a trade that, if the truth be told, I held rather in contempt.

“Ma foi!” I exclaimed, “I would have been happy to have done that an hour ago; you know the trick of it by instinct.”

He shook his head, smiling. “I have seen it before,” he said quietly; “a good piece of workmanship, monsieur, and Italian in origin.”

It was now my turn to be surprised, and I knew he enjoyed turning the tables upon me.

“Perhaps you can give me its history,” I said drily.

“No, no, M. le Marquis,” he replied, laughing a little at my vexation. “I only know that I have seen it, and handled it in the palace of the Prince Galitsyn; he usually wears it around his neck.”

“Ah,” I exclaimed, “with the portrait of Sophia in it,” and I pointed to the miniature lying on the folds of Maître le Bastien’s cloak.

The good man snatched it up in some anxiety, examining the ivory closely for cracks or defacements.

“I suppose the Czar Feodor planned to marry his fat sister to the prince,” I remarked.

Le Bastien smiled. “It is considered beneath the imperial dignity to marry a daughter or a sister of a czar to a subject,” he said, “and, as foreign princes—with two exceptions—have not sought Russian wives, there are quite a number of single czarevnas.”

“Old maids must be thicker than ravens about the Kremlin,” I rejoined, still watching him as he examined Sophia’s picture.

“There are only twelve of them in the imperial family at present,” he replied, and laughed a little, as he put the miniature carefully away; “there are only twelve,” he continued, “and this one is more of a man than a woman; her appeal to the populace at the Czar Feodor’s funeral, the other day, has raised the very devil among the lower classes, and ’tis rumoured to-day that she has won over twenty-one regiments of the Streltsi to the Miloslavskys; only one is faithful to the little czar. Mischief is afoot, M. le Marquis; I hear the growl of the mob in the Zemlianui-gorod; I see trouble brewing even among the palace guards, and the Czarina Natalia is losing her nerve. The Naryshkins have snatched all the offices of state, and they are young and untried and unfit to meet the crisis.”

Le Bastien went to the window and looked out, the golden pear still closed in his hands.

“Hush!” he said; “what is that?”

We listened and heard, far off, shouting and beating of drums.

“The yelp of the canaille,” he said scornfully. “I hear that the Streltsi demand that some of their colonels shall be sent to Siberia, and others receive the pravezh. Trouble, monsieur, trouble of a bloody kind; I predict it, and I trust,” he added suddenly, looking at the trinket on his palm, “that this bauble has nothing to do with it.”

“Nonsense!” I ejaculated, with a shrug; “the frolic of two girls, monsieur, nothing more.”

But he shook his head. “I know a little of the Prince Voronin,” he said; “he is on the side of the Naryshkins, and a man of much prominence, belonging to one of the oldest——”

He got no farther, for the door was opened without ceremony and a tall Russian stood on the threshold. The stranger’s dress, which was long and girded at the waist, was of deep crimson, brocaded in gold, and was edged with sable, to match the bands on the high round cap on his head. He was a young man and handsome, in a fierce way, as a tiger is handsome. His complexion had the tints of ivory and his eyes were brilliant and unpleasantly alert. Maître le Bastien knew him, and greeted him as a person of rank, while I suddenly endeavoured to remember my rôle of apprentice.

“I come unexpectedly, master goldsmith,” the stranger said, in Russ, “but I was curious to see your work.”

“The Boyar Kurakin is welcome always,” Maître le Bastien replied, with dignified courtesy, “and he may inspect my designs and my completed work at his leisure.”

So it was our neighbour, whom I had never happened to see, for he had been absent from Moscow until very recently. I regarded him therefore with some interest. He walked over to the large silver vase at once, and stood apparently contemplating it, while the goldsmith pointed out its beauties and explained the bas-reliefs, but I noticed that M. Kurakin’s sharp eyes had wandered from the vase to the golden pear that Le Bastien still held in his hand, and I began to regret my stupidity in allowing it to remain in sight.

“This design of the cupids,” said the master placidly, pointing to the top of the vase, “is precisely like the one on the vase I made for his majesty the King of France; but here,” and he indicated the bas-relief of Venus and Mars, “I have varied the pattern a little to the satisfaction of his excellency Prince Galitsyn.”

The Russian did not reply, he was too much engaged in staring at that fateful pear, so much so indeed, that the goldsmith suddenly became aware of it and let that hand fall at his side.

“Would you care to see my wax model of Diana, M. Kurakin?” he asked blandly.

“Surely,” replied the boyar, with interest that was either genuine or extremely well feigned; “your work pleases me so well that I think I must have a piece of it for my palace,” he added, suave as silk, showing his white teeth, that reminded me strangely of the fangs of a wolf, handsome as he was.

“Raoul, is not the Diana in the other room?” asked Maître le Bastien, suddenly turning to me, and, as he did so, he swiftly and silently slipped the pear into my hand with a significant glance.

“It is, monsieur,” I said, with the air of an apprentice, infinitely relieved at his adroit manœuvre, and thinking, fool that I was, that those keen eyes had not seen the locket change hands.

The master went on calmly discoursing about the vase, and I slipped out of the room and ordered Michaud to take in the model of Diana, a graceful figure, in wax, worthy of Le Bastien’s genius.

Having got rid of the matter, as I thought, so easily, I walked into the Chamber of the Cross, which, as I have said, was in the centre of the house, and there I fell to examining my treasure with the greedy interest of the miser. I was convinced now that there was some mystery attached to that pear of gold and jewels, and turned it over and over in my hands. Then I was seized with a mad desire to get it open and look again at the pictured face of the Princess Daria, for, truth to say, that face had already begun to haunt me. But the tormenting trinket, shut by Maître le Bastien, would not open, nor could I find the secret spring, and I was still trifling with it, when I became suddenly aware that the curtain opposite the shrine was moving and, in an instant, the Boyar Kurakin walked in alone. I thrust the pear into my bosom, but I was certain that he had seen the gleam of gold and of jewels. If I had had any doubt of it, his next move dispelled it, for he pounced upon me as eager as a tiger after his prey.

“Give me that locket, sirrah!” he said fiercely; he took me for an apprentice.

I was within a hair’s-breadth of giving him a sharp retort when I remembered my rôle, with a certain malicious enjoyment. I shook my head stupidly, pretending not to understand Russ, and he had not a word of French. He flew into a passion and used some hard language, and then tried by signs to make me understand. I think he did not relish the idea of laying hands on me, for I was a larger man than he and scarcely wore the air of a tame pigeon. But I shook my head again and chattered French at him in the tone of one of the monkeys in the bazaar.

“Give me the locket, varlet,” he bellowed, striding toward me, his whole aspect full of a belligerence that made my fingers tingle for the moment of conflict.

We were now in the corner of the room by a door that stood open at the top of a flight of steep stairs, and suddenly I bethought me of a way to punish my friend. I turned upon him so sharply that he started back, expecting violence, no doubt, and, as I had planned, he tripped on the step behind him, rolled over, and fell head over heels, down the stairs.

IV: THE MAKING OF A FRIEND

THE stairs down which the Boyar Kurakin fell were entirely dark, and I could not see what was happening, so I was the more surprised to hear, on top of the crash of his fall, a woman’s shrill screams, a man’s curses, and the sound of a scrimmage down there in the dark. I snatched up a taper and, lighting it, held it high over my head, and was looking down the stairs when Maître le Bastien and Michaud hurried in, summoned by the outcry, and running to me, peeped under my uplifted arm into the abyss below. Then it was that we were all convulsed with a merriment that Le Bastien and I smothered for caution’s sake, but Michaud, the apprentice, knowing no reason for prudence, gave way to, and doubled up and rocked with laughter, holding his sides, for the light of my taper revealed a ridiculous scene. We had in our employ, as cook, an enormously fat old Russian woman named Advotia, and it was evident that she had either been listening—after the fashion of servants—at the foot of the stair, or had started up with a skillet of soup, when M. Kurakin started down on his unceremonious trip, and the result was that the hot soup had been spilled on both, and the infuriated boyar, whose fall had been broken by her mountain of flesh, was so little grateful that he had evidently punched her head, and she, in her turn, enraged at the double injury, fell to beating him with her skillet, and the two were dancing about on the stairs, showering blows and curses upon each other, while the savoury odor of the wasted broth rose to our nostrils.

Maître le Bastien was the first to recover from his amusement and recognise the serious side of the scene, and he called out to Advotia to go about her business, while he begged M. Kurakin to ascend and permit him to attend to his hurts in a suitable manner. But the boyar was in no mood for apologies and, having shaken his fist in Advotia’s face, he came up the stairs, cursing at every step, and accused me of throwing him down, while I bowed and smiled blandly, making signs that the fall was due to his own misfortune, and Maître le Bastien, quick at taking a cue, apologised for me and declared that I was a good fellow, quite incapable of such villainy. Kurakin was far from convinced of my goodness, but for some reason it suited him to conceal from Le Bastien his attempt to get the pear, and he contented himself with a scowl at me that was equal to a threat, and a few curt remarks to the goldsmith.

“Your servants, sir, male and female, are only fit for the gallows,” he said fiercely, “and the sooner they hang the better. Such a varlet as that big ruffian of yours would get the pravezh here!”

“You do not know his good qualities, monsieur,” said my master suavely; “he has been a faithful servant to me. Your misstep was distressing, but it might have had even worse consequences, for the stairs are steep.”

“Yes, it might have broken my neck,” replied the boyar, casting a dark look at his host, “but for that fat beast at the bottom.”

“Exactly,” said Maître le Bastien; “so, after all, she served a good purpose in breaking your excellency’s fall.”

But Kurakin would not be appeased; he had been balked, and he knew it; but we were too many for one, and he took himself off, with such ill-concealed rage and malice that I saw that the goldsmith was uneasy. When he was gone, and I had related the whole incident and began to laugh at it, Maître le Bastien held up his hand.

“He laughs longest who laughs last,” he said gravely. “Have a care, M. le Marquis; these Russians are fiery creatures, and this man has all the fierce pride of his class. ’Tis as I feared; there is some mystery behind that bauble, and, please the saints, I’ll get it out of my house as soon as I may; therefore give it to me, monsieur, and let me secure the miniature and return it to this princess of yours.”

Willing enough to hasten the chance of seeing the beauty again, I gave him the locket with alacrity, and he lost no time in going to work at it. But it proved a more delicate task than he had expected, and it was well on into the evening before it was completed and far too late to return it to the palace of Prince Voronin. So we had an opportunity to discuss the matter again at supper, and the master told me the little he knew of the prince and of the Boyar Kurakin.

“Voronin belongs to the oldest and proudest class of the nobility, and was deeply offended, as they all were, at the Czar Feodor for burning the Books of Precedence,” Le Bastien said, while we were eating a stew of sterlet, the famous fish of the Volga. “All these men were firmly established by these very books; the recorded deeds of their illustrious ancestors and their rank on those singular pages decided their own position in the state. No man would take a lower place than that of his ancestors, and Dr. Von Gaden, the court physician, tells me that many a campaign has been lost because of this fierce scramble for place. When Feodor, therefore, weary of choosing a fool for a servant because his father had been wise, burned these books, he insulted the old aristocracy, and they all hate his memory and his mother’s family, the Miloslavskys, as they hate the devil, and are ready to uphold little Peter and the Naryshkins. It is only those who are identified by interests of some kind with the Miloslavskys—like Prince Galitsyn—who uphold the cause of the Czarevitch Ivan. Kurakin is one of these; he was mixed up in all the intrigues of the late czar’s reign, and he is Miloslavsky to the backbone. Here, then, is the probable key to the situation; the Voronins are Naryshkins, Kurakin and Galitsyn are Miloslavskys, and this trinket has some mysterious importance.”

But quite another thought was clouding my horizon.

“And the Princess Daria,” I said; “is she the wife, or the daughter, of Prince Voronin?”

Maître le Bastien’s eyes twinkled and he shook a warning finger at me.

“Have a care, monsieur,” he said; “she is the prince’s only child,—and heiress,—and I doubt not there is some intrigue afoot.”

“I grow interested,” I said gaily. “I must solve the problem.”

“The saints forbid!” exclaimed the goldsmith piously; “you are already in trouble enough, M. le Marquis; do not, therefore, thrust your hand into a hornet’s nest.”

I laughed, with no thought of following this prudent advice; instead, I lay awake half the night, puzzling over the trinket, and when I finally fell asleep, it was to dream—hothead that I was—of the most beautiful face in the world, the face of the Princess Daria.

Next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, I prepared to set out for the palace of Prince Voronin, to return the locket to the princess of my dreams.

I remember well—as if it had been yesterday—the pains I took with my toilet, and how hard I stared at myself in the mirror that Maître le Bastien had brought from Paris. Yet I was no longer a callow youth to have my head turned by such folly; it only goes to show what a fool a man can be over a beautiful face. But if I hoped for satisfaction in my own image, I got but little. I saw in Le Bastien’s mirror a tall man with wide shoulders and long, strong arms, but I was not handsome, and I sighed at the contrast between my irregular features and my bold, blue eyes, and M. Kurakin’s classical beauty. I had a scar, too, on my forehead from a sword cut at Seneffe, and my chestnut hair, which I wore without a peruke, was beginning to show threads of silver, and I had the air of a fighter and no courtier, though I was well enough born and bred, too, for that matter, but I was no fop. My dress, too, had to suit my supposed condition, and being simple and even shabby in the matter of a blue taffety coat, did not set off either my face or figure, and I confess that—longing for the first time to pose as a squire of dames—I was in no very good humour either with myself or the world when I set out at last with the pear in the bosom of my doublet, and some directions from Maître le Bastien in my ears. Moreover, to add to my discomfiture, he had called after me, with a twinkle in his eye, that no man would be allowed to visit the terem of Voronin’s palace, and I had best ask for old Piotr, the steward, at once and trust my errand to him. I shrugged my shoulders and tossed back a defiance, but I was far from feeling sanguine myself, as I left our quarters and began to thread the narrow lanes between them and the prince’s palace, which stood much nearer the banks of the Moskva.

As I left the bazaars behind me the streets seemed unusually quiet, and I had traversed perhaps a hundred yards and turned into a lonely lane, flanked on either side by the rear walls of two old houses, when I heard a shrill squeal of agony, so intense and so piercing that it seemed scarcely human, and followed by a silence as ominous. I stopped to listen and heard a shutter open on my right and close again; evidently some woman had peeped out to see what it was, but she would venture no more, and the stillness awakened my suspicions. What mischief was afoot now? I loosened my sword in its scabbard and felt for my pistol, and advancing quickly, I peered under the edge of a low vaulted gateway. It opened into the garden of a vacant house to the left; the yard was nearly choked with weeds—nearly, not quite—in the centre there was an open space, and in it I saw a burly fellow, red-headed and red-bearded, crushing some creature, child or beast, I knew not, under his knee. As I advanced my footsteps struck an echo from the stone pavement at the gateway and the man looked over his shoulder. It was my acquaintance, Kurakin’s steward, and, in a flash, it dawned on me that he was taking his vengeance on the unhappy dwarf. The next moment I had the great brute by the collar and put my pistol to his head, and he, recoiling as far as he could, let his victim fall on the pavement. With a kick and the threat of the pistol I got the big fellow to his feet; it was in my mind to make an end of him, but he was too contemptible.

“Get out!” I said to him in Russ; “be off to your kennel or——” I flourished my weapon.

He cursed me, his great bloated face purple and his eyes like blood, but he dared not linger, for he read that in my glance which cowed him. He slunk off like the coward he was, and then I looked at the dwarf, who lay in a heap on the ground, and marvelled that a creature so tiny could have resisted him a moment. The poor little wretch was stripped almost naked and had been lashed until he was covered with blood. A bloody thong lay near to tell the tale, and his throat had two purple marks on it where the steward’s fingers had been pressing the breath out of his body. Yet, nearly spent as he was, he crawled to my feet and fell to mumbling over them and kissing them, until it turned my stomach.

“Up, you little rogue,” I said bluntly, “and go home; ’tis your monkey tricks that have brought you to this. Learn a lesson, and leave such brutes alone.”

But he was not to be drawn off so easily; he clung to my knees, begging to serve me, vowing fidelity to death, and such an abject picture of misery and gratitude that I had not the heart to send him away. Indeed, he was afraid to venture two yards from my feet, and, as he was too weak to travel far, I was in a pleasant dilemma. The prospect of taking such a follower to the Voronin palace was certainly worse than the wearing of the old taffety jacket.

“What is your name, varlet, and your home?” I asked with impatience, and yet a little amused.

“My name is Maluta, excellency,” he said, kissing my shoes for the fiftieth time, “and my home is your home.”

“Holy Virgin!” I ejaculated, somewhat aghast, and then I laughed, too heartily amused to be vexed: here, certainly, was an acquisition to our household.

But it turned out no jest, and, try as I would, I could not shake the little wretch off, and was forced, at last, to convoy him back to our quarters and order Advotia to dress his wounds, while Maître le Bastien promised to keep him close until my return from my errand, laughing all the while at my adventure, as if at the richest joke in the world. So, by a strange intervention of fate, I was the patron of a miserable little dwarf and I had a mortal enemy in the kitchen next door; besides I was an hour late on my errand to the Princess Daria.

V: THE PRINCESS DARIA

AS I approached the palace of the Prince Voronin I entered a street which gave me a view of the open space beyond, where the Iberian Chapel stood, overlooking the Red Place, and farther off were the white buildings of the Kremlin, bathed in sunlight, their roofs of scarlet and green and blue, and their crosses of gold, glowing and flashing like so many stars at noonday. I caught, too, a gleam of the Moskva, and heard again the hum of busy life, for there was a throng of people in the Red Place. But my business was nearer at hand, and after one glance at the scene before me, I turned to the right and here, set in the midst of some peasant huts, I saw the Voronin palace, white—like the buildings of the Kremlin—with a green roof, and a golden cupola over the upper story, which I took, and rightly, for the terem. The main building was solid and massive, and nearly square, and there was a wing at one side, opening on to a high walled court, while behind this wing was the garden, which was beginning to show the promise of summer.

Instinct, and some observation of Russian customs, directed me, not to the main entrance, but to a low door in the wing, and here I knocked boldly, while I looked about the court with sharp eyes. Once out of the street, I heard none of its noises; and the quiet atmosphere of the place impressed me: there was not even the usual clatter and bustle in the kitchen, and while I waited a drosky drove up to the main entrance and a young man jumped out of it and was immediately admitted. I confess I was little pleased with his youthful and well-dressed appearance, for he had the air of a courtier, and I was on the point of going to the front of the house myself when the door behind me was softly opened. A serf looked out, staring at me in no very friendly fashion, and taking in every detail of my “German clothes,” as they called the European dress, and he almost closed the door again while he listened to my request to see the Princess Daria. Indeed, if I had asked for a piece of the moon he could not have looked more amazed, and, instead of answering me, he called loudly to someone within, and another serf came to stare, and then another and another, until the door was full of faces and all eyes fixed upon me, much as I have seen a rabble of Paris stare at a dancing bear.

“What ails you, you gaping fools?” I asked, losing all patience. “Do you not hear my errand? I come at the request of the Princess Voronin, and I bring her a packet of grave importance.”

But this only made them stare the more, and the door being full, the adjacent windows began to bulge with heads, and the entire service of the kitchen gaped and chattered and pointed. I grew red in the face and felt my anger rising; it seemed as if some of those heads must be broken before any impression could be made, and I was in the mood to break them.

“Fools!” I said; “do you serve your mistress so ill that you cannot take her a message?”

At this, a titter arose in the background, started by some kitchen wench, and her mirth proved infectious, every face widening into a grin until, at last, they broke into loud and mocking laughter. My own face burned and I felt myself paid—and in my own coin—for my trick upon Kurakin, nor did I know what to do; among so many, my anger was but impotent folly, and my appearance, in my shabby attire, did not impress their vulgar eyes, for the canaille are likely to judge you by your clothes. I stood scowling at them, of two minds whether to turn on my heel or not, and leave them to their jest and the princess without her trinket—for I know of no swifter cure for a moonstruck gallant than ridicule—when the course of events was suddenly changed. A lattice over my head opened and a young girl peeped down at the group, and as I looked up I recognised the companion of the princess, Mlle. Lissa. She, as roguish as ever, began to laugh too, her blue eyes dancing with mischief, but, at the same time, she spoke sharply to the servants, and in a moment all merriment subsided and they huddled together in shame-faced confusion, eyeing me askance, while she vanished and old Piotr appeared below. It required only a word from the grey-haired major-domo to send the rabble of the kitchen skurrying to their quarters, and then he received me respectfully, but I thought there was a deep suspicion in his eye, while he listened to my request to see the Princess Daria.

“Her excellency has commanded me to admit you,” he said, however, and signing to me to follow him, he led me across a wide hall to a flight of stairs and began to ascend them with a measured tread.

The old man was dignified, with the deliberate movements so characteristic of the Muscovite; he held his grey head high, and his erect, muscular figure was clad in a long caftan of scarlet cloth, a chain of gold around his neck, and a dagger worn in his belt, and his whole aspect was perfectly in keeping with the part he played, of faithful retainer and steward in the house of a great noble. He did not address a word to me as we ascended the stairs and he led me on, as silently, through a gallery to another staircase which we also ascended, and then he opened a door and ushered me into a large apartment, where he bade me await the pleasure of his mistress, much as he would have bidden me await the coming of an empress, and bowing gravely, he left me to my own reflections. Being sure that I was now in the terem of a great boyar’s palace, I looked about me with much curiosity. I fancied, with truth, that no foreigner had ever been introduced there before and I was, therefore, the more interested. The room was large and Oriental in aspect; arches of Eastern design supported the vaulted roof, and the floor was covered with Turkish rugs and the lounges cushioned with glowing silks from the bazaars. On the wall opposite was one of the inevitable sacred pictures; this time, Saint Olga, and one deep recessed window lighted the apartment, looking out over the Moskva at the red battlemented wall of the Kremlin, and its palaces and cathedrals, and beyond—so high was this upper story—I caught a glimpse of the sweep of the plain and the Hill of Prostration, where the devout kneel at the sight of the “holy white mother city.”

I waited with some impatience, listening for the sound of a footstep, but for a while the house was singularly silent. Presently, however, I was startled by the soft notes of some instrument, for I knew that, in the strict Muscovite household, music among the women was discouraged. But here was a stringed instrument, and then a woman’s voice, singularly sweet and mellow, began to sing in Russ, and I listened attentively, not only because of the unusual words of the little ballad, but because the voice seemed to me to belong to the princess herself.

“‘If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,’”

sang the unseen musician:

“‘If in winter the flowerets would bloom,

If the woes of my spirit were o’er,

My spirit would cast off its gloom,—

I would sit with my sorrow no longer

O’erwatching the dew-covered field.’”

The singer’s voice rose and fell, plaintive and sweet, and then she played a few more chords before she continued:

“‘I said to my father already,

Already I said to my taper,—

“Nay! marry me not, O my father!

O marry me not to the proud one!

O seek not for high piles of riches;

O seek not for palaces fair,

’Tis man, not his palace, we dwell in;

’Tis comfort, not riches, we need!”—

I hurried across the young grass;

I threw off my sable fur cloak,

Lest its buttons of metal might tinkle—

Afraid my stepfather would hear me

And say “she is there,” to his son—

To his son who is doomed for my husband!’”

Again her voice sank and her hands must have strayed over her instrument. I had forgotten my impatience and stood listening in rapt attention, when she began again with the little refrain:

“‘If the frost nipped the flowerets no more,

If in winter the——’”

She got no farther; her song stopped sharply and then I heard a ripple of laughter and much whispering, followed by the rustling of skirts in the room beyond. Then the curtain between was lifted by an old Russian woman, who held it respectfully aside, and the Princess Daria entered. I had only seen her, cloaked and hooded, in Maître le Bastien’s workshop, and was almost unprepared for the vision that broke upon me, as she walked slowly across the room and, pausing in the broad light of the window, turned her face toward me and calmly waited for me to speak. She was tall, with a girlish slenderness of figure, and the dignity and poise of a young queen. The beauty of her features, which I had already seen, was greatly enhanced by her colouring, for her complexion was almost dazzlingly fair, and her hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing. To my satisfaction, too, she wore no paint, which was unusual, as the Russian women painted not only their faces, but their hands and arms, and even coloured their eyelashes, but she was beautiful as nature made her. Her costume, too, singular as it was to my eyes, only added to her charms; it was a flowing, ungirdled robe of some clinging white material, embroidered in gold around the edge of the hem at her feet, and in a broad band around the half low neck; and on either bare, round, white arm, as well as about her throat, were plain bands of dull gold.

She stood looking at me with great composure, her penetrating glance apparently taking in every detail of my appearance, and to add to my embarrassment, I became aware of Lissa’s roguish face peeping out from behind the shoulder of the old duenna, who stood patiently in the doorway. However, I made my obeisance as gracefully as I could, and drawing forth the packet, which contained the pear. I presented it, along with the picture of the Czarevna Sophia, which Maître le Bastien had been careful to return. The princess received the package with dignified complacence, but at the sight of the miniature she turned crimson, looking for all the world like a naughty child caught in some mischief. Seeing her confusion, and determined to prolong the interview to the fullest extent, I bethought me of something more to say.

“Let me warn the princess,” I said courteously, “that there seems to be a peculiar interest attached to that locket, and that it was seen while in the hands of Maître le Bastien.”

She gave me a startled look, in which alarm and displeasure were mingled.

“And by whom, sir?” she asked haughtily.

“By the Boyar Kurakin,” I replied.

She blushed yet more deeply and bit her lip, while I heard a little smothered scream of laughter from the direction of the doorway.

“I trusted it to you,” said the Princess Daria coldly. “It was your fault that my confidence was betrayed.”

“It was purely accidental, mademoiselle,” I replied, and went on hastily to explain how Kurakin had forced himself into the house, pushing Michaud, who understood no Russ, out of his way and entering the shop unannounced. Then I told her briefly of his effort to get the locket from me.

“But he failed, princess,” I continued suavely, “because, at the moment when he thought to snatch it from me, he tripped and fell down the stairs on top of our fat old cook, Advotia, who beat him with a skillet of soup, so that the noble gentleman not only lost the locket, but was baptized in good broth.”

She had listened with an effort at dignified reserve, but at this conclusion to my narrative she began to laugh a little, and at the sound of the merriment behind the portière, she, too, gave way to hers, and laughed as gaily as Lissa; the duenna meanwhile—to whom my French was as so much Greek—looked from one to the other in puzzled silence, her black eyes keenly alert and her wrinkled face as grave as a judge’s.

“I am sorry you lost your soup, monsieur,” said the princess, still laughing softly, “and for me, too!”

“I would lose much more—and peril much—for the sake of the Princess Daria,” I replied gallantly, forgetting my rôle of apprentice.

She flashed a quick look at me and blushed and smiled, for, with all her hauteur, she seemed to have the simplicity of a child. But the chaperon was not so well pleased, and she made a cautious movement of warning, touching the princess’ robe, and the young girl, blushing still more deeply, recollected her dignity, and taking a purse from the old woman’s hand, she turned to pay for the locket. This part of the transaction had never entered my thoughts, and as it flashed upon me my face burned, and I motioned the money away; retreating toward the door. It was now her turn to be embarrassed; she drew back the purse and looked at me, a picture of pretty confusion.

“But, monsieur,” she said, “cannot take the work as a gift. I must pay for the locket.”

“There is nothing to pay,” I retorted brusquely, as red as fire; “the labour was nothing.”

“But there was the soup, monsieur,” she said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“That went to M. Kurakin,” I replied with a bow, and I took another step toward the door.

She stood irresolute, looking at me and fingering the bracelet on her arm, and I know not how long might have lingered, for she was good to look upon, when suddenly she snapped the circlet and it fell apart in her fingers. She looked at it with a little cry of surprise, and then held it out to me, with the prettiest gesture of friendliness.

“Will you not mend it for me, sir?” she said, with her head on one side, a smile lurking in her eyes.

“With pleasure, my princess,” I replied, bowing profoundly, and as I took the bracelet I managed to kiss the fair hand that gave it.

And then the duenna hustled me suddenly out of the terem, for if she knew no French, she understood looks and gestures only too well—the old ferret—and she shook her staff at me from the head of the stairs as I descended. She stood there looking, for all the world, like an angry hen, clucking away at me in Russ, at the top of her lungs, until old Piotr took me in charge and, in his turn, hurried me out of the house. Evidently, the pair of them regarded me as a dangerous intruder in their dove-cote.

VI: THE DWARF

ONCE more in the court-yard, I stopped to laugh, for the anger and trepidation of the two guardians of the household furnished me with no little entertainment. I was in a good humour, too, for I had seen my divinity and had even kissed her soft white hand; a proceeding which caused her no little amazement, for I had seen her surprise in her eyes, and the blood had stolen up to her hair, but I flattered myself that she was not altogether angry, for I felt sure she was amused at the old woman’s excitement over the little episode. I glanced back now over the house, hoping to catch another glimpse of its fair mistress, but was disappointed. Piotr’s discipline had served to keep the serfs from gaping at me again, and the upper windows were vacant, save for a solitary raven that perched upon one sill and craned his neck as if to look down at me. The sun shone intensely on the white walls of the palace, and the shadows were clean cut and black where they fell in the niches of the building, and above the sky was blue. The bells of the Kremlin churches began to ring sweetly, the clear-toned notes floating away in the distance, and the air was soft as spring in the south.

I walked slowly to the gates and stood a moment looking out into the street, and it was while I lingered thus that a drosky arrived at the main entrance drawn by three fleet horses, and a tall man alighted from it, attended by a servant. At the first glance I recognised the handsome face and fine figure of Prince Basil Galitsyn; he had been often to Maître le Bastien’s workshop, and I could not mistake his face or his bearing. Of all the Russian nobles he was the most Western in his manners and tastes, and he was an unusually handsome and dignified man. The air of familiarity with which he approached the house and the cordiality with which he was greeted—Piotr standing bare-headed on the step to receive him—were not at all to my taste. I stood staring after him as he vanished into the palace and, for the first time, I regretted having assumed a disguise. I reflected that the princess had in her possession, at that very moment, a locket that belonged to Prince Galitsyn, and all at once he loomed up before me as a probable lover of the beautiful Daria. “Why not,” I reflected; “what was more likely? And here was I, like a blockhead, in the shabby garb of an apprentice, cooling my heels in the court-yard, while his excellency, the prince, was doubtless taking zakuska in the salon.” Yet I had no remedy, and must even grin and bear it, for to rush back and declare myself the Marquis de Cernay would have done little for my cause beyond raising the ridicule of the kitchen. Neither could I hang about the court-yard, like a menial, to catch a glimpse of the proceedings that might be visible through the lower windows; there was nothing for it but to curse my ill fortune and, buttoning my old taffety coat over the princess’ bracelet, to proceed on my way back to my quarters with no very pleasant reflections. But there was one thread of comfort: I knew that by common report the Czarevna Sophia loved Prince Galitsyn, and she was reputed to be a woman of no ordinary qualities and was likely enough to be a formidable rival even for the beautiful Princess Voronin. I tried to remember all that I had ever heard of the czarevna, and to piece together a respectable romance between her and Prince Galitsyn, but I confess I got very little satisfaction out of the process, for before my mind’s eye stood always the graceful figure, the glowing, youthful face, the sparkling eyes of Daria Kirilovna, and I could not believe that the prince was blind.

Busied with these meditations, I traversed the streets between the palace and our quarters quickly enough, and entering the house, with a face as long as my arm, bethought myself of the dwarf, and intending to call for him, I opened the door of the refectory and looked in. There was the dwarf himself, seated on a table in the middle of the room, busily engaged in devouring a meal that had been spread before him, while Michaud, the apprentice, was sitting on a window-sill near at hand, looking on with a grin.

The little creature, with his white, three-cornered face, was hunched over his food, eating with his fingers, and devouring the stuff with the fierce greediness of an animal, and as he ate his great ears wagged with every motion of his jaws, and Michaud,—who was an idle rogue,—seeing this, put his hands at each side of his own head and wagged them to and fro, in mockery of Maluta’s ears, making his jaws go to the same tune. The meal, too, was one to startle any but a Russian stomach; it was a bit of sterlet,—the precious fish they love so well,—some Muscovite rice bread, a pickled mushroom, and a tankard of beer, with some drops of oil of cinnamon in it, a flavour that the Czar Alexis considered a truly royal delicacy, and the dwarf ate and drank with an avidity that could be heard in the entry, while Michaud mocked him—eating imaginary food with the same relish.

I stood looking at the scene in silence, vastly amused thereat, and so fierce was the dwarf’s appetite that he did not observe me until he had gulped down the last of the beer, and then his rat-like eyes suddenly alighted upon me. He put down the empty tankard, sighed, thrust the whole pickled mushroom into his mouth as a parting dainty, and wriggling off the table, he came across the room, knelt on one knee and made an obeisance before me, as if he kissed the floor at my feet, while Michaud hooted derisively in the background.

“Up, you little varlet,” I said impatiently, advancing toward the only chair at the table, “come hither and tell me your history”; as I spoke, I was about to sit down, when I discovered that that lout of an apprentice had thrown himself into the armchair and was gazing at me with a cool impudence that I had never seen equalled.

So amazed was I that, for the moment, I only stared and then I stirred him with my foot.

“Be off!” I exclaimed sharply, tried beyond prudence.

“Be off, yourself!” retorted Michaud insolently.

I fairly choked with rage. “You impudent puppy,” I said, “how dare you?”

“How dare I?” said he; “and what are you? You are Raoul, the apprentice, and I am Michaud, the apprentice, and a better goldsmith than you, I’ll warrant!”

This was too much; my disguise had cost me too dearly already, and the varlet’s insolence made me blaze forth into fury.

“Get up!” I said fiercely. “I am neither Raoul nor the apprentice, sirrah, and you know it! Try not my patience too far, or I’ll break your head for your pains.”

Something in my face cowed him, though the fellow usually was bold enough. He rose sullenly.

“I care not!” he said gruffly; “you are one moment an apprentice and the next moment ‘monsieur.’ How can an honest man know what you are?” and he shot a look of suspicion at me.

I disdained to tell him who I was, although I did not fear betrayal, or care for it, but I ordered him out of the room, and then, taking the disputed chair, I fell to questioning my new protégé. Maluta had watched me while I talked with Michaud, and though he understood no French, I think the little beast read our gestures and expressions so well that he understood the gist of the matter, and I saw him studying my face, while we talked together, much as a mariner studies a new-made chart of a dangerous coast. A few well-directed questions drew forth the creature’s history, in substance, at least. He was one of the court dwarfs, or had been, and the Czar Feodor had given him to the Boyar Kurakin, who had virtually discarded him, and he had, for the last few months, got his food where he could, mainly through the charity of cooks and scullions, for these little creatures were veritable waifs of fortune. That he might be useful to me I could not doubt, for he had, of course, every court intrigue at his fingers’ ends; but that he would also be a nuisance and a charge upon me was equally plain, yet I never felt less inclined to turn a poor waif into the street. Moreover, he was infinitely amusing, for that night while Maître le Bastien and I supped together, he danced for us and performed a dozen monkeyish tricks with tireless energy. And, whether I would or no, he attached himself to me; he watched my moods, he carried my cloak and my sword, he was even ready to change my shoes, or to run my errands, and after a day or two I began to tolerate him and even to find him useful. I little dreamed then, however, how useful he was to be.

Meanwhile another kettle of fish was boiling fast in the Zemlianui-gorod, where the Streltsi were gathered. For days the storm of discontent had been gathering, and petitions were carried back and forth between the barracks and the palace. The very day that I visited the Princess Daria the soldiers had seized and scourged one of their own colonels, and no man dared gainsay them, though the Chancellor Matveief, the uncle of the Czarina Natalia, and the old commander of the Streltsi, had been recalled from exile in Archangel and was in the Kremlin, trying to pour oil on the troubled waters, but deeper and yet deeper worked the intrigues of the Miloslavskys. Their emissaries were busy among the ranks of the soldiers, pledges were making, dissension was sowing, and loud and deep came the growl of the mob. Men dared not walk abroad unarmed; women kept closer than ever; even the Gostinnoi Dvor, the great bazaar, was almost deserted. I walked through it at noon of a Friday, and saw scarcely fifty people chaffering at the stands, and they were buying images and pictures of saints, and the merchants, bearded and solemn, looked pale and whispered apart. And the Red Place was empty, an ominous sign; it was not crowded with courtiers and petitioners, and the Czarina Natalia held her court with empty galleries—so Le Bastien told me—while the Czarevna Sophia was besieged by the soldiers, who hung about her, when she appeared in public, and thronged her ante-room at all hours. On the outskirts of the town the mob gathered at morning and evening, and talked and threatened; an officer riding through with an order from the czarina had been stoned at daybreak on Thursday, and there was a cry now for pay for the regiments and redress of all old grievances, the affirmation of the Streltsi’s old privilege of keeping shop, and a dozen other benefits that they had—or fancied they had—by right.

Maître le Bastien, who was an over-cautious man, began to hide much of the gold and silver that had been given him for his work, and he bought another pistol in the German quarter, at which I laughed; but he shook his head.

“There’s mischief brewing, monsieur,” he said; “mischief of a black sort. These soldiers are little better than a rabble of cut-throats and robbers, and the Miloslavskys are stirring them up to a devil’s business”; he shook his head again. “A child and a woman to rule,” he added, “and a band of wolves at the door; prime your pistols, M. de Cernay, and keep your sword loose in its scabbard. I remember hearing my grandmother tell of the Eve of Saint Bartholomew; though she was as good a Catholic as I am, she never forgot it, monsieur; their house was in the district of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, and to the day of her death she would fall to shivering when a pistol cracked in the dark or the bell of Saint Germain tolled. Last night, when I came out of the gate of Saint Nikolas, I passed perhaps twenty of these fellows, and if ever I saw the devil in men’s faces, I saw it in theirs.”

“Tut, Maître le Bastien,” I said, with a laugh; “you’ve got an old woman’s whims in your brains. They have but to pay these rogues and give them a beating, and they will slink back to their kennels.”

But he was not to be persuaded. “When the wolf scents blood——” he replied, with an expressive gesture, and went to the cellar to hide more of his gold. While I laughed and set Maluta to dancing on the table, which he did in a marvellous fashion, spinning around and around, in constantly increasing circles, until he leaped clear over my head and perched on the back of a chair, swinging there like an ape, to my great diversion.

Yet the future, so swiftly approaching, was bigger with fate for me than for Maître le Bastien, while for the Princess Daria—chut, I must not run ahead of my own tale.

VII: THE SUMMONS

IT was on a Friday, scarcely three days after Kurakin saw the golden pear in Maître le Bastien’s hands that a summons came from the palace. The goldsmith had been modelling in wax a very beautiful little image of the Virgin of Kazan, intending to cast it in gold with precious stones for the little Czar Peter. He was at work on it in the forenoon while I sat watching him, for lack of something better to do, for he had not yet mended the bracelet for the princess, though I had importuned him to do so; I think he delayed only to vex me, for he would shake his head, with a sly twinkle in his eye, when I asked him for the trinket.

The windows were open, and opposite the sun shone on Kurakin’s roof. All the morning there had been the dull boom of distant drums, for there was some new excitement in the quarters of the Streltsi; and there were strange rumours afloat that the blind Czarevitch Ivan was ill of a poison, but outwardly the city was calm, the calm that comes before the tempest, for it was already past the middle of May, and no one, perhaps, but Sophia Alexeievna herself knew the devil’s broth that was boiling under our feet.

A breath of chill air blew in from the north and lifted the grey curls on Maître le Bastien’s broad forehead. He set the little image on the table an viewed it complacently.

“It is well,” he said, and looked at me smiling, expecting approval.

But I was not heeding him; my ear had caught the clang of the outer door, the skurry of feet on the stairs, and the next moment Michaud opened the door, breathless, and before he could enter, one of the court chamberlains pushed in. A big man with a long grey beard and a portly front, swelling with his own importance, and in his long, gorgeously embroidered caftan and high cap, he looked like some Eastern eunuch. Maître le Bastien was inclined to treat him civilly enough, but he took a high tone.

“Your presence is required immediately at the palace, master goldsmith,” he said, in a deep tone, rolling out the sonorous Russ like a big bass drum; “my orders are not to return without your person.”

Le Bastien, ever cautious, looked startled and perplexed.

“By whose authority?” he asked, gravely polite.

The chamberlain stared, stupidly as an ox, blowing out his cheeks angrily.

“By the order of her serene highness the Czarevna Sophia Alexeievna,” he said, “and it behoves you to make haste, my master.”

“I have ever been ready to serve her highness,” said Maître le Bastien, in an aggrieved tone; “these peremptory orders are uncalled for, monsieur.”

A flash of intuition illumined the situation for me, and I determined not to desert him.

“I will accompany you,” I said to him, in French, “and carry the image yonder—as an excuse for my presence. It may be well to have a witness.”

His brow cleared and he thanked me hastily, the chamberlain scowling meanwhile, for he could not follow our French, and could only reiterate his orders to us to make haste. There seemed indeed no reasonable way to evade him, nor cause for it, for neither of us had done anything to merit the displeasure of the all-powerful princess, and therefore we prepared to accompany the portly old gentleman back to the Kremlin. But when we got to the door and found that he had a guard there of five or six of the Streltsi, we began to fear that we were under arrest, and said as much to each other in French, yet we could not anticipate any legitimate reason for it, and were forced to put as good a face on the matter as we could, trailing along in the chamberlain’s wake, with a file of savage-looking soldiers on either hand. True to my character of apprentice, I carried the little waxen image of our Lady of Kazan, and Maître le Bastien, being empty-handed, plucked nervously, first at his short velvet cloak and then at his lace cravat. I never saw the good man so distraught over what seemed, at most, a small matter. Meanwhile, our silent companions eyed us askance, as the Russian always eyes the foreigner, and finding little reason to converse, we fell silent, and there was only the tramp of our feet as we traversed the streets. In this quarter they were deserted, but once or twice a woman peeped cautiously out of an upper window at us, or a group of children skurried out of our way like so many rabbits. It was broad sunshine, and as we drew near the sacred picture of Saint Basil, on the wall, I saw the pigeons nestling and cooing on its canopy. There was a huge lamp, which burned perpetually, suspended before the shrine, under the protecting roof of the canopy, and the gaunt figure and dusky face of the saint looked grimly down upon us. Before it knelt a moujik, in a long sheepskin caftan, his legs bound up in cloths, and his feet in bast shoes; he was kneeling on the flint pavement praying, with the devout indifference to the world which is common to the Russian peasant. And as the chamberlain and his six tried friends drew near they also humbly saluted the sacred picture and passed it with bared heads, for these fellows were, like their humble countryman, very zealous in their religion, and held the Pope of Rome in as little reverence as did our brethren beyond the Loire.

Some excitement in the outskirts of the town had drawn off the people from the Kremlin, for when we crossed the Red Place it was nearly vacant, and only a crowd of dwarfs peeped at us as we ascended the Red Staircase and entered the palace. We left our six ruffians in the guard-room and, conducted by our fat friend, the chamberlain, we were led up the back stairs to a gallery of the terem, where we were left to wait, at a safe distance from the private apartments of the women. I remember to this day seeing a dark-eyed, curly-headed boy of nine, cross the gallery with an attendant and stop to stare at us with frank curiosity. A large child for his years, with a bold port and keen eye. It was the little Czar Peter, and it was said that he was ever eager to learn new lessons, and to see strangers. While we waited, neither Maître le Bastien nor I cared to talk, but once he turned to me.

“I fear that this concerns that trinket of yours,” he said very low, with an anxious eye.

“So I think,” I replied and smiled.

My life in Moscow had been flat, stale, and unprofitable, and the thought of danger was ever a sweet taste in my mouth.

The goldsmith looked troubled. He was a man whose life lay in pleasant places, and he could not contemplate the thought of intrigue and violence with my complacence. He shifted his position uneasily and fell to watching the door through which the fat man had vanished. Meanwhile I had deposited my wax model on a window ledge and, walking about the room, stopped to examine a painting that hung on the wall at one side. It was a picture of Saint Olga on a loose piece of canvas, and would scarcely have held my eye long if I had not noticed a curious flutter and movement to it, as if it was swayed by a current of air, and lifting the end I suddenly discovered that it concealed a narrow slit in the wall, un œil-de-boeuf, through which I could look down into the room below. Nor was the room vacant; one glance interested me so much that I silently signalled to Maître le Bastien to come, too, and behold my discovery. It was a good-sized apartment, and in the centre of it stood a woman, short, stout, singularly striking in appearance, and before her were grouped seven or eight fierce-looking soldiers of the guard, Streltsi; some knelt at her feet; all were eager and attentive, and she was addressing them, her voice rising and falling, with a thrill of eloquence, and her expression and gestures were as eloquent, though we could not hear what she said. I glanced a question at Le Bastien, and he nodded.

“Sophia is meddling with the Streltsi,” he said, very low and disconsolately. “’Tis as I thought,—as most people have feared,—there’s not a Naryshkin fit to match her, unless it is the Chancellor Matveief, and even he——” The goldsmith shook his head dolefully. “There is a Russian proverb,” he said, “that ‘a woman’s hair is long, but her understanding short,’ but the saints defend me from a manœuvring woman!”

His ejaculation was so pious and so heartfelt that I laughed and dropped the canvas, just in time, too, for our friend the chamberlain came waddling in again to inform us that her imperial and serene highness would see us in five minutes. He proceeded, therefore, to conduct us, by what seemed to me an entirely new route, to her presence, I wondering all the while if she would receive us and the Streltsi together. But my speculations on that point were soon satisfied, for when we entered the ante-room we passed her friends coming out, fierce-eyed and keen-set as a party of wolves, and when the chamberlain opened the door of the room we had looked down upon, and bowed low at the threshold, we found the czarevna quite alone, and seated in a great carved chair at the further end of the apartment. The official announced the name of Maître le Bastien, goldsmith of Paris, with great solemnity, and then, closing the door upon us, left us to face the daughter of the czars.

VIII: THE GREAT CZAREVNA

WHEN we entered the room the Czarevna Sophia remained seated, and the light from a window at her side fell full on her face and figure, revealing them sharply. She was twenty-five years old at this time, but already very stout, with an enormous head, and a homely fat face, with small, keen eyes that were alert and searching. She still wore deep mourning for her brother Feodor, and her black robe falling loose and straight, after the prevailing fashion, only increased her apparent bulk. Her plump, short-fingered hands were, however, extremely white, as they lay on her black draperies, and, unquestionably, there was something in her glance and bearing that was imperial. The woman was a power, and we felt it as soon as we came in contact with her. She bent a singular look upon us as we advanced and made our salutations, and as we drew nearer I discovered that she was holding some object concealed in her hands. I had not long to wait before I learned what it was. She addressed Maître le Bastien, taking no notice of me, evidently putting me down as an apprentice.

“So, master goldsmith, you’ve come at last,” she said in Russ, her tone as acid as vinegar. “I find that you have not been idle in Moscow.”

Le Bastien, as cautious as an old fox, felt his ground.

“I have endeavoured to labour diligently, your highness,” he said suavely, “and I think I may venture to say that I have accomplished something. The great vase is now nearly completed, if your highness will but come to view it, and here is a model I have been making of a figure of our Lady of Kazan, to be executed in gold and jewels.”

As he spoke he signed to me to advance, and display the model, which I did with the more alacrity because I wanted a nearer view of the princess, but I was so awkward in handling the image that the goldsmith took it himself and displayed it. But Sophia looked at it with a cold eye; it was plain that her thoughts were elsewhere.

“In gold with jewels; it would cost too much,” she said severely, “and we have not paid our soldiers. I know not why the Czarina Natalia should encourage such extravagance.”

Maître le Bastien, accustomed to consideration from all the great men of France, and the patronage of our munificent monarch, flushed hotly at her tone and handed the image back to me.

“The conception was altogether mine, madame,” he said, in dignified displeasure. “In my country princes delight in all the elegancies of art; pardon me for not considering merely the question of cost.”

He meant a rebuke, but it was lost on her highness; she merely shrugged her shoulders. She had no conception probably of the greatness of France, seeing nothing beyond her own horizon but the edge of the world; the pride of these Muscovites is something truly amazing.

The display of the model coming off so poorly, the goldsmith stood silent and, for the moment, the interview seemed a flat enough matter, and then the czarevna suddenly struck to the root of it. She held out her hand, and in the palm of it lay the Princess Daria’s jewelled pear. We both started, and Maître le Bastien turned from white to green; the good man seemed for the time chicken-hearted.

“You have recently handled the locket, master goldsmith,” Sophia said slowly, “and for whom?”

I could hold my tongue no longer; I feared his loss of nerve.

“Tell her it was left in your absence,” I said, very low and in French.

She darted a tigress look at me, but remained silent, waiting on Maître le Bastien. He repeated my lesson by rote.

“Who was in your house to receive it?” she demanded sharply, then suddenly pointing at me, “that man?”

“I suppose so,” faltered the goldsmith, the cold perspiration starting in beads on his forehead.

“Can you speak Russ?” she asked, turning on me.

“A little,” I replied, afraid to leave it in Maître le Bastien’s hands.

She held up the pear. “Who brought this to your master’s house?”

“A man, I think,” I replied stupidly, rubbing the back of my head like a clown.

She uttered an exclamation of impatience.

“What man?” she cried fiercely. “Are there not hundreds and thousands of men? What manner of man, stupid, and of what condition? A varlet or a gentleman? A serf or a freedman?”

“He might have been one, and he might have been the other,” I stammered slowly, as if the Russ tied my tongue. “I do not rightly remember, your highness.”

She rose from her chair at this and stamped her foot at me, calling me, durak, which may be interpreted as “ninny,” and then she swept up to Maître le Bastien and opened the locket so sharply before his face that he started back as if she had snapped a pistol under his nose. She held up the trinket, displaying the beautiful face of the Princess Daria.

“How dared you take mine out for this?” she thundered, fixing her little eyes on him with the fierceness of a tigress, ready to spring.

“Tell her that it was a mistake,” I whispered in French, “that it was intended for another setting.”

“Hold your tongue, varlet,” said the czarevna, casting a fierce glance at me, though she understood not a word.

“Many things are brought to me, madame,” said Le Bastien slowly; “this miniature must have been put in the wrong locket. I have two apprentices, and sometimes, between us all, errors are made.”

“Where, then, is my portrait?” she demanded, fastening her eyes on his face, as if she meant to read his very soul.

Here, in spite of her rebuke, I interposed, bowing profoundly.

“Pardon me, your highness,” I said blandly; “I think I know where the picture lies safely at Maître Bastien’s quarters, if we may be permitted to look for it.”

She turned on me sharply. “You know where it is, then?” she said. “Ah, I perceive, it was you who had the pear and hid it from the Boyar Kurakin.”

Saint Denis! it was M. Kurakin then! Like a flash I saw how we had been betrayed; but how had she got the trinket? There was the riddle.

“The pear was brought for us to mend, madame,” I said simply.

She scowled at me, black as a thunder-cloud; she was far too keen not to suspect us, but she had no means of pinning us to the wall.

“I am determined to know how this miniature was substituted for mine,” she said in a more even tone, though her small eyes glittered like two knife points; “if either of you trifle with me or deceive me, you shall receive first the pravezh and then——” She drew her hand across her throat with a significant gesture.

Then, for the first time, Maître le Bastien fully recovered his composure. Her speech had made my blood boil, and it brought his to his cheek.

“Serene highness,” he said proudly, “you forget that we are both Frenchmen, and subjects of the greatest monarch upon earth, his most Christian Majesty, Louis, King of France, and we are here under the safe conduct of the Russian government.”

She shot a look at him that defied all law and all authority but her own; it was the look of the royal tigress at bay.

“We are in Moscow, master goldsmith,” she said tartly, “the King of France rules not here.”

“His arm is long, madame,” retorted Le Bastien coldly.

She laughed, and it was such an unpleasant laugh that I saw the goldsmith wipe the perspiration off his forehead. There were torture rooms in the Kremlin, and he knew it.

“If I may be permitted to return to my lodgings,” he said, “I will undertake to restore the miniature to your highness—to rectify the mistake.”

“You are under arrest,” she replied shortly, and stood looking at him much as I have seen a cat watch a mouse.

“Perhaps she will let me go,” I suggested in French.

“Will your highness allow my apprentice to go for the miniature?” Le Bastien asked, in a dignified tone.

She hesitated. I think she began to suspect me more than the grave, elderly goldsmith, but she was determined, and she did not believe in the story of the mistake. She took two short turns across the room, stopping once to look out of the window, and then she touched a bell on the table. Immediately my fat friend, the chamberlain, appeared, as if she had conjured him from the subterranean regions.

“Vasili Ivanovitch,” she said to him, “you will accompany this goldsmith,” she pointed at me, “back to his lodgings; you will wait there until he makes a search for a picture of me; you will bring him back, with or without the picture. You will not let him escape.”

“It is well, Sophia Alexeievna,” replied the chamberlain, bowing profoundly.

She turned a strangely malicious glance upon me. “You may go,” she said calmly.

I made my obeisance, but I could have laughed at the irony of fate. The miniature was in the keeping of the Princess Daria, and what in the world could I do with this fat old fool at our quarters? Verily, my falsehood seemed likely enough to stick in my throat and be the ruin both of Maître le Bastien and of me. I cast a look at him and saw that he was as pale as ashes, but I could give him no comfort,—there was none to give,—though I went out behind my portly friend, with thoughts of such a nature that, had he divined them, he would scarcely have walked in front of me, even on the Red Staircase.

IX: I MAKE A PRISONER

WE went back very deliberately to Maître le Bastien’s house. It was not the chamberlain’s habit to walk rapidly, and I dragged purposely, not only to gain time, but to plan some way of ridding myself of my companion. Vasili Ivanovitch, as Sophia called him, but more commonly Chamberlain Kourbsky, was determined to keep me close under his eye, and I was equally determined to evade him. How, it yet remained to be seen. We walked along, therefore, in grim silence, each busy doubtless with his own plots, each watchful of the other. But slowly as we walked we got to the house at last, and by that time I had made my plan, but I know not whether he had his or not; if he had, it miscarried for the time.

We entered the lower hall and I called loudly for Michaud, but the varlet, taking advantage of his master’s absence, had gone out; neither could I find Maluta; only Advotia came to stare at us stupidly, so there was nothing left but to go on up the stairs with my friend the chamberlain. And on the way he was suddenly seized with a sense of his duty.

“You must haste, Master Goldsmith,” he said pompously; “the czarevna waits.”

“Precisely,” I replied, nodding my head and passing the door of the workshop; “you will follow me, sir.”

He stared a little, having halted at the shop, supposing that the miniature was somewhere there amidst the litter of Maître le Bastien’s work.

“It is not there,” I said, replying to his glance, “it is necessary to secure the valuables. Ascend, monsieur.”

He sighed and followed me up the second flight, narrower than the first, and we reached the terem. This part of the house, occupied now only by Advotia and a female scullion, was bare and poor enough, and I saw him stare about in astonishment, but I was not yet done with him.

“Higher, monsieur,” I said blandly, and led the way to the little stairs that went to the turret, which contained one small room with three narrow, slit-like windows.

He followed, obstinate as a bull, but I heard him pant as he laboured up. The stairs were steep and narrow, and at the turn he nearly stuck fast, and I heard him mumbling some incoherent ejaculations. Up I went and he followed, blowing now and puffing out his cheeks. I was well ahead, and slipped the key from the inside to the outside of the lock; then I went into the little chamber and waited for him. On one window-sill some pigeons sunned themselves, I could see the belfry of the great tower of Ivan Veliki. I heard Kourbsky come up, blowing now like a whale. There was a chest in the room, under one window, and, as he entered, I pretended to be trying the lid. He stood getting his breath, his face as red as blood, for he was very angry.

“The lid sticks,” I said. “Will monsieur take hold of the farther end? The miniature is here.”

He bent reluctantly, grasped the end of the lid, and commenced to pull with all his strength. As he did so I let it fly up and back, and he fell over backwards, sitting down on the floor with a crash, and the dust rose in a cloud about him. In a trice I was out of the room and had slammed the door, and locked and bolted it on the outside. I had caught my enemy, and for a moment I leaned on the stairs laughing, hearing him bellow all the while within.

Then I looked down and saw Michaud staring up at me, with a strange expression; he heard the chamberlain’s shouts and ejaculations as plainly as I. Indeed, the great man’s voice seemed to shake the house to its foundations, and his threats were blood-curdling. I went down the stairs and touched Michaud on the shoulder.

“Follow me,” I said.

He obeyed, curious enough to know the meaning of it.

“Where were you when I came in?” I asked sharply, when we reached the workshop.

“I came in a moment ago,” he answered sullenly.

I eyed him sharply; I had no time to waste upon him and saw no great reason to distrust him. I told him, therefore, of Maître le Bastien’s arrest, of his peril, of the necessity of keeping the chamberlain in the house until I could return, and I watched him narrowly, all the while, to see how he felt about it. That he was alarmed and sorry for Maître le Bastien, I could not doubt; he showed it plainly, and my first doubts of him began to slumber. Besides, he knew no Russ, and hated the Russians, and I had the key of the upper room in my pocket. I felt that I could trust him for an hour. I pledged him, therefore, on his honour, to guard the upper room, to keep Advotia away from it, and to let no one in at the front door in my absence.

“Remember that the master’s life may depend upon your faithfulness,” I said severely, as I went down to the lower floor, feverish to be off to the Princess Daria.

“Sapristi!” he replied, “would I fail the good man now? Have no fear, monsieur.” He dragged a little on the word in a way I did not like, but I knew his temper and thought little of it; besides there was no time to lose.

I went at the top of my speed to the Voronin palace, pausing for no man, scarcely conscious of the passers in the streets, and once in the court-yard I knocked boldly at the door, where I had been so ridiculed on the occasion of my former visit. But I met no ridicule now; scarcely had I knocked before the door flew open, and old Piotr, grave and stern, stood on the threshold eyeing me in a forbidding fashion. But I did not heed it; instead, knowing that he could be trusted, I told him of the gravity of my errand and that I must see the Princess Daria without delay. At the mention of the czarevna and the visit of the two young girls to the workshop, his face clouded yet more deeply, and I thought that he was strongly agitated, though he answered me soberly enough.

“Sir,” he said gravely, “the princess is not at home; she is in the Kremlin.”

At this I started, deeply alarmed, and I saw my anxiety mirrored on his face.

“We have not a moment to lose,” I said, almost fiercely, “to the Kremlin, man, with me to find her.”

He shook his head, pointing inwards. “I dare not,” he replied, very low; “the prince is here.”

“But his daughter’s safety, man!” I cried impatiently, “let me in to tell him all.”

Old Piotr looked at me, much as he would have looked at a madman.

“Never tell him,” he said; “never betray her excellency—if you do!” he lowered his brows, he curled his lips back from his strong white teeth, like a wolf; “if you betray Daria Kirilovna, I—I, Piotr, will surely kill you, so help me Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk,” and he lifted both hands over his head, swearing by the saint before whom all Russians pledge their fidelity.

The strong old man, his grey head lifted, his hands also—with the palms up—was a striking figure.

“I will never betray her,” I said heartily, and held out my hand.

He took it and pressed it lightly, not wholly trusting me. Then I left him, for I had no time to lose. To the Kremlin—that was my one thought as I sped. As luck would have it, at the very gate I stumbled on Maluta. The dwarf looked at me keenly and began to follow me, and I, impatient of him and not minded to be troubled with him, turned sharply.

“Be off, Maluta,” I said. “I have no time for you now—or use either.”

But he still followed. We were entering the Red Place and a second time I ordered him off, but he came on and plucked at my coat.

“You seek her,” he said, peering at me, white-faced and ferret-eyed; “you seek the Princess Daria?”

I started; was the thing unnatural in mind as well as body?

“Yes,” I said, “O astrologer, I seek the princess.”

“She is in the gardens of the Kremlin, serene excellency,” he said, bowing low.

I stared.

“Do you mean it, goblin?” I cried. “Is she really there? If this is a piece of your acting—of your trickery, you will pay dear for it!”

He laid his hands on his heart and then his forehead.

“Did not your excellency give me life?” he said. “By the great saint over the gate, by——”

“Yes, I know, by the Saint Nikolas,” I said. “Where is she?”

“Follow me, O excellency,” he said eagerly; “she is in the gardens, she and another, her cousin Vassalissa Feodorovna.”

“By Saint Denis!” I exclaimed, under my breath, “what absolutely gigantic luck! The little varlet is an angel in disguise. Lead on, O prophet!” I added; “lead and I follow.”

He smiled and, turning sharply on his heel, led me toward the gardens. We walked so rapidly that in a few moments we were following a path amidst the trees and shrubbery of the Kremlin pleasure-grounds. The green of the spring was here and the sunshine; I heard a bird singing overhead, I saw the splash and glimmer of a fountain. There was the faint sweetness of early flowers, delicate, thin in essence, the first breath of the northern summer. The place was very quiet, the turf green and soft under foot; there was a grove of slender young trees before us, their branches feathered with spring, their stems tall and sparsely grouped, framing a pathway where the sunshine made a mellow light. In it I saw two tall young figures in long cloaks, and each wearing the fata—a veil like a nun’s—to hide their faces, but I could not mistake the taller figure; the bearing, the very gait had been graven on my mind. It was the Princess Daria.

X: IN THE GARDEN OF THE KREMLIN

AS the girls drew nearer I caught a glimpse of a third figure in the rear; my friend the duenna was following slowly, leaning on her staff. Meanwhile Vassalissa had stopped at the sight of me and plucked at her companion’s skirts, but the princess did not heed her, she came steadily toward me, stepping so lightly that I do not believe a blade of grass was crushed beneath her feet. She would have passed me, responding but slightly to my salutation, but I barred the way; with uncovered head.

“I must speak with you, Princess,” I said firmly, “of a matter that concerns your safety as much as that of Maître le Bastien.”

She halted at that, though the duenna began to chatter objections and shake her staff at me, but Daria silenced her by a gesture.

“Speak on, sir,” she said to me, and through her veil I could see her beautiful eyes regarding me gravely.

I plunged at once into my story, telling her—as briefly as I could—of the summons to the Kremlin, and of Sophia’s anger, and of her determination to solve the problem of the lost miniature. While I spoke I saw that Lissa was listening with evident agitation, clinging to her cousin’s arm, but I could not read the thoughts of the princess. She heard me to the end, without the slightest interruption, and once or twice she glanced in the direction of the palace and then back at my face, but her composure was entirely unshaken.

When I had finished my recital Lissa could be restrained no longer; she broke out impetuously, and in a frightened voice.

“It is all my fault, Daria,” she said. “Oh, forgive me! What shall we do? Of course, the fat creature is furious!”

The fat creature! Oh, if Sophia had heard her!

The princess cast an impatient glance at her cousin.

“For myself it does not matter, Lissa,” she said quietly, “and I, too, am to blame—but, look you, here is the good goldsmith in peril for our sakes.”

“I know,” said Lissa, nodding her head at me, “I know—but we must get him out of this trouble.”

“Can you give me the czarevna’s picture, Princess?” I asked. “If you can, I will undertake to straighten the matter for you.”

She looked at me absently, apparently lost in thought.

“Of course, he can have the picture, Daria,” Lissa cried eagerly.

“Yes, he can have it,” the princess replied calmly, “but that will not matter—it is only the beginning of the end. It was folly, it was madness——” She broke off, and stood looking at the ground, an expression of great perplexity upon her face. She had pushed her veil aside and I saw that she was very pale.

Lissa looked at her, clinging to her hand.

“Oh, I think it will not matter so much, Daria,” she said. “Uncle Kirill will straighten it for us.”

The princess smiled sadly and shook her head.

“If you will trust me,” I said, addressing her, “I will take the miniature to her highness, and I will so bear the matter out that you shall not fall under the shadow of a connection with the change of portraits. You may trust me, mademoiselle, on my honour as a French gentleman.”

She gave me a swift, searching glance, and with her hand on Lissa’s lips checked that young girl’s impulsive reply.

“Sir,” she said gravely, “you cannot understand how serious this matter is. It began in a moment of folly—a jest upon Prince Galitsyn, but I had repented of it—and all would have been well but for the—the accident that gave the locket back to him, and through him to the czarevna.”

“Surely, mademoiselle, not by his free will,” I said, “if he is the brave man that men call him.”

She coloured deeply. “I think not by his free will,” she said, “for he must know the peril of it for me, and for mine. Howbeit, I am no coward,” she added proudly, “and I must face it to the end. But you must have the miniature, if only for Maître le Bastien’s sake, and”—she stopped and glanced at me almost shyly, more girlish in her aspect than I had ever seen her—“and for yours, monsieur.”

I bowed gravely. “Consider me not at all, Princess,” I said softly, “except as your servant.”

“I thank you,” she replied, with simple dignity. “I will send at once for the miniature.”

“Let me go!” pleaded Lissa; “let me do this much to atone, Daria.”

“So you shall,” replied the princess, clapping her hands softly, and as she did so another attendant, a tall, raw-boned lad, in a serf’s dress, appeared.

“Take Konrat and go,” she said to Vassalissa, “and let your feet be fleet as the raven’s wings, Lissa, for a good man is in trouble for our folly.”

Her little cousin needed no second bidding, but ran off, with the serf, in the direction of the Bielui-gorod. And the Princess Daria, after a few words to the duenna, walked a little apart on a mossy bank below the fountain, and then signed to me to follow her. I supposed that she intended to question me about the czarevna, but she did not. The sun was shining on her, as if it loved her, and her veil made a filmy white hood above her charming face.

“You are from France, sir,” she said softly; “will you tell me something of that far-off land—more than I have learned in books? Is your home in that great city where the king lives?”

“Nay, mademoiselle,” I replied, surprised and pleased, “my home is in a province of France, called Normandy, and from the turrets of my house I can see the waves sweep wild and free on a long stretch of hard, white beach, and the smell of the salt is in the air, and there is ever the deep boom of the ocean. When the day breaks there is a whiteness on the sea, and when the night falls, a shadow, and the stars shine on the water. And the turf is green there, and the trees and flowers come to an earlier budding, and I think, too, the birds sing more sweetly. And there are orchards, and fields of grain, and you can see the cattle standing, ankle-deep, in the stream that runs across the meadows below the château, and——” I broke off; presently I should tell her more than I cared to have her know.

She had listened attentively, her eyes on the distance, and as I paused, she sighed softly.

“It must be a fair country,” she said. “I see you love it, sir—but I thought you were a goldsmith from Paris,” and she darted one of her keen looks at me.

It was now my turn to redden. “I am from Paris last, Princess,” I said, “but I am Norman-born.”

“I understand,” she said. “’Tis so here also. We are from different provinces; from the north and the south, from Great and Little and White Russia, from Kief, and Novgorod, and Kazan, and Lithuania, but,” she added softly, “we all love the White Mother Moscow. Is it so with Paris?”

I shook my head, smiling a little. Our brethren south of the Loire had not loved Paris much since Saint Bartholomew, and there were others. I remembered that I had thought it an evil star which took me to Paris, but now I began to think differently.

“Paris is a very great city, mademoiselle,” I said, “and emulation and jealousy and strife are there—in secret places—just as turbulence and strife are brooding here to-day in Moscow.”

She opened her eyes and looked at me in surprise.

“I do not understand you, monsieur,” she said.

“I mean the Streltsi, mademoiselle, and the jealousy between the Naryshkins and Miloslavskys. The soldiers seem ripe for rebellion.”

She shrugged her shoulders with a disdainful smile.

“They would not dare,” she said haughtily; “what are they? Nothing but moujiks, and the sons of moujiks; there is no aristocratic blood there to lead.”

“Sometimes the canaille can do much mischief, Princess,” I replied, “and what if these moujiks are secretly led by royalty itself?”

She glanced at me quickly, a little startled, but she had an aristocrat’s contempt for the mob.

“I cannot believe they would be,” she said. “He who turned the rabble loose would be in the greatest danger himself. Besides, the government has conceded so much to these soldiers; too much, my father says.”

“That is precisely the point, mademoiselle,” I replied; “it has conceded so much that it can no longer command; it is entreating them.”

Her expression changed and grew grave. Then, after a moment, she smiled and seemed to cast the whole matter to the four winds.

“Where is my bracelet, sir?” she asked suddenly. “Have you mended it?”

“Not yet, mademoiselle,” I replied, as glibly as I could, “but it shall be mended in a manner worthy of the arm that is to wear it.”

“You have never mended bracelets!” she said, looking at me from under her long lashes.

“If I mended one for anyone, it would be for the Princess Daria,” I replied, with gallantry.

She blushed. “You are long about it,” she retorted, pouting. “I want my bracelet!”

“’Tis hard to part with it, Princess,” I said daringly.

She bridled, and I know not what she would have replied, for, at the moment, Lissa came running up, breathless, with the miniature, which she thrust into my hands.

“Go, go!” she cried, “and save your master and save us too!”

“Yes,” said the princess gravely, “there is no time to lose, master goldsmith!”

It was hard to go, but I knew also that time was precious; I concealed the miniature on my person, and bowed profoundly to the two young girls.

“To hear you is to obey, Princess,” I said, looking straight into her eyes, and she blushed furiously and dropped her veil over her face.

“Then go, sir,” she said imperiously.

“At once, mademoiselle,” I replied, and turned away.

I had gone, perhaps, ten or twenty yards, when I heard the patter of feet behind, and Lissa came running after me.

“Do not mind her,” she panted. “Daria is not really cross, only she will play the princess. But, oh, do smooth the matter over with that dreadful czarevna, for it was all my fault! I gave the trinket to Galitsyn; you know he is half mad with love of Daria? Oh, there! I have told too much——” She clapped her hands over her rosy lips, her eyes dancing.

We heard the princess calling sharply: “Lissa, Lissa!”

“I come, I come!” cried the girl and to me, “there—do, do it, sir, do help us!”

“Trust me, mademoiselle,” I said, smiling; “not only for her sake—but for yours, too.”

“I thank you.” The girl poised on one foot, ready to run back to her cousin; “and—and I do not believe you are a horrid old goldsmith either!” and she was off, fleet as a young fawn.

XI: THE PLOT THICKENS

WITH the miniature in my possession again I had not a moment to lose. It was necessary to take it to Sophia at once, and I could not release the chamberlain Kourbsky until I had seen the czarevna. Indeed, I did not know how I could let him out at all, for he would surely stir up a great commotion. Yet it had been absolutely necessary to get rid of him, or to betray Daria. And as I sped toward the Red Place again, I made up my mind to think no more of the chamberlain until Sophia was satisfied with her picture, and then to find some way out of the other difficulty. That he was wild with rage in that little turret room I did not doubt, and thinking of him as I saw him last, sitting in a cloud of dust, I laughed aloud—but I laughed too soon.

Maluta had waited for me in the garden, and was at my heels now, and, having found him so useful, I suffered him to follow me still. It was fortunate that I did, for as I drew nearer to the palace it occurred to me that, without Chamberlain Kourbsky, I had no means of reaching the private audience chamber of the terem, and while casting about in my mind for an expedient that would help me, I bethought myself of the dwarf’s former place at court. Calling him to me, I told him that I wanted to enter the terem and see the czarevna, mentioning my former interview with her, an hour or more before, and explaining my anticipation of difficulty in obtaining admittance. Maluta listened attentively, looking up at me sideways, his forehead wrinkled and his great ears standing out. As I finished, he nodded knowingly.

“You cannot enter by the public way,” he said, at once, “but there is a way—follow me, excellency.”

We were at the foot of the Red Staircase; above us rose the palace. It was about two hours before sunset, and the shadows fell long across the court of the Kremlin. It was the 24th of May, and the aspect of the place was singularly peaceful; the bells of the Church of Saint Basil the Blessed began to ring sweetly and softly.

I looked down at the tiny creature at my side.

“You belong to the court no longer,” I said. “How can you obtain admittance?”

He laughed, malicious mischief peeping out of his sharp eyes.

“They do not know,” he said; “not one usher in fifty knows one of us from the other, and the dwarfs are always running the secret errands of their czarish majesties. Trust me, my master. I will take you there. Why, there is not a secret,” he held his finger up to his lips, “not a conspiracy up yonder, that we do not know; they cannot deceive us—not they!”

I believed him, looking at his sharp, malicious little face. How often do princes pay for spies upon themselves, and nourish vipers in their bosoms! I shrugged my shoulders.

“Go on, then,” I said, “and be quick!”

He led on past the Red Staircase, skirted the walls of the palace, came to the rear and there, at a little postern, stumbled upon a crowd of dwarfs. At the sight of their comrade they yelled shrilly and made strange gesticulations, but Maluta silenced them by signs, laying his finger on his lips, his forehead, and his heart, and then pointing at me. They fell away and let us enter, staring at me, and swarming in after us, as I have seen bees swarm into a hive. It annoyed me; I wanted more elbow room, but remembering the difficulties before me, I tried to endure these little creatures with patience. Once in the palace we began to ascend a narrow flight of stairs,—the back stairs of the terem,—where many a secret, whether of joy or sorrow or sin, had crept up and down for years; crept until the marble steps were worn and lustreless, and the very arches, fluted and dim above us, were darkened by an atmosphere of secrecy and fear. The pattering of many little feet behind began to grow more distant and ceased altogether when we left the swarm at a turn of the stairs, below a landing, where we came suddenly upon a sentry. He lowered his staff across the narrow space and would not let us pass, but Maluta threw out his little chest and strutted, as I have seen game-cocks in the halles of Paris, and reaching up on tip-toes, he whispered to the soldier, two words that—for the next few days—were magic in their effect.

“Sophia Alexeievna.”

In an instant the staff was raised, the man saluted, and we passed safely on, through a dim gallery where, behind closed doors, I heard the murmur of subdued voices. There was something in the very air of this part of the palace that choked an honest man; it was a place for the toads that live upon the sovereign’s bounties and betray him. I was glad when the dwarf finally entered a wide corridor, lighted by windows that looked out upon the Red Place, and I saw the sun shining on the wall beside me, and felt the breeze from an open casement. Halfway down the corridor we found an usher on duty, and to him Maluta used the same password, and he opened the door and bowed me into the ante-room of the very chamber where Sophia and Maître le Bastien still awaited me. The dwarf’s cleverness had served me well indeed, but I had no time to thank him. Sophia sat in the carved chair, waiting for me with a face like a thunder-cloud; and the goldsmith had aged six months in two hours.

“You are long about your errands, sir,” snapped the czarevna as I advanced, her little eyes searching me, as keen as two needles. “Where is Vasili Ivanovitch?”

“He will be here presently, your highness,” I replied evasively; “but I have brought the miniature,” and I presented it with a profound obeisance.

I think she was surprised, but she showed no sign of being pleased. She took it with much deliberation, and turning it over and over in her hands, examined it jealously, as if she feared either deception or some injury to the precious picture, but she failed to find even a scratch upon the ivory. Relieved by this turn of affairs, Maître le Bastien found his voice.

“If your highness will permit me to take the picture and the locket back to my shop,” he said, “I will replace the miniature in its former position with such care that it will not show its removal.”

She cast a strange glance at him over her picture.

“Do you suppose I wish to have it replaced?” she asked scornfully.

“I thought so, madame,” he replied, in evident perplexity.

“Well, I didn’t!” she said acidly, and she looked at the locket viciously. “Have I not evidence here?” she added.

Maître le Bastien caught my eye, and an expression of deep concern clouded his face. To both of us came terrible misgivings; the woman—jealous, powerful, and malicious—was hatching some mischief; what, we could not easily divine. We stood looking at her, both stricken dumb, and feeling the helplessness of our position in her hands, and she eyed us fiercely and keenly, a gleam of amusement on her face. No one spoke, and for a few moments there was profound silence and then—suddenly an uproar in the corridor. The czarevna turned her head sharply and listened, alert and eager, and Maître le Bastien and I listened, too, for we had an intuition of some impending catastrophe. We heard doors slam and feet skurrying across the ante-room, and then a puffing, gasping sound that smote my ear with singular familiarity.

The door burst open, and unannounced and without formality, the fat chamberlain, Kourbsky, my prisoner of the turret, rushed in, puffing and panting, his face scarlet, and behind him came two soldiers guarding two formidable prisoners; the apprentice, Michaud, and our fat cook, Advotia.

XII: ADVOTIA AS AN INTERPRETER

IN spite of the uproar attending the hasty entrance of the chamberlain and his captives, the czarevna sat unmoved, her fierce eyes fastened on them.

As soon as he could articulate, Kourbsky pointed at me, with a finger that trembled with rage.

“Arrest that villain!” he sputtered; “chain him, scourge him! He—he locked me in a turret room—your highness, he—he left me a prisoner, and here I find him fawning on your feet! He is a deep, a dangerous rogue, O Sophia Alexeievna; he stops at nothing, he—he——”

“He—what, sir?” I said fiercely, suddenly dropping my assumed character and stepping up to him. “What, sir? Speak out—if you dare—a false accusation against the Marquis de Cernay.”

He staggered back, his eyes starting, fairly frightened into silence, and I thought I caught a gleam of keen amusement in Sophia’s eyes. I turned to her with my natural manner.

“Madame,” I said easily, “this gentleman is stout and suffers from shortness of breath. I found it impossible to carry him about with me, and left him to rest at our quarters until I had despatched your highness’ business.”

The chamberlain fell on his knees before Sophia with a thud that shook the very floor.

“Hear, O Princess!” he said, glaring at me furiously; “the man is a villain. He locked me in a turret after—after treating me with great indignity, and, but for that good fellow yonder,” he pointed at the rogue, Michaud, “I would be there now and, perhaps, murdered. But the good youth let me out and that woman made known to me many things, many——”

“For instance, how to cook sterlet!” I interrupted contemptuously.

“Saint Denis!” murmured Maître le Bastien, “be still—your rashness will cut our throats!”

“She told me what the good youth said; she has learned enough of their heathen tongue to interpret,” continued Kourbsky, “and if I may speak privately with your serene highness, I will unfold all—all. I know who brought the miniature and the locket, and who ordered them changed.”

I stood near Michaud, and at this I turned a fierce look on him.

“Villain,” I said, “for this alone you should hang.”

He looked down sheepishly, but sullen still, and I saw his hands shaking as if with palsy. He had not counted the cost. Sophia’s silence during this scene had been singularly ominous, and now she spoke calmly.

“Go on, Vasili Ivanovitch,” she said; “who brought the locket to the goldsmith’s house?”

“Princess,” I said, forestalling Kourbsky, but speaking with courtesy, “permit me to warn you that the knave who has talked with your chamberlain is but a lying servant, and the woman a cook; neither of them knows anything of the matter.”

“That is so,” added Maître le Bastien gravely; “these people were never in my confidence. Your highness may be greatly misled by them.”

But she was too keen to be thrown off the track. She narrowed her small eyes, drooping her lids, and looked at us, but she signed to Kourbsky to proceed, which he did joyfully.

“The man tells me—through the woman,” he said, “that the locket was brought to the shop one afternoon by the Princess Daria Kirilovna.”

I saw the czarevna draw a deep breath, and her eyes sparkled with something akin to fierce joy. I tried to speak, but she ordered me to be silent, beckoning to Advotia.

“Come hither, woman,” she said sternly, and then to Michaud, “come hither also, knave.”

They both obeyed; Advotia dropping on her knees in great agitation, her fat cheeks quivering, while Michaud—comprehending her gesture rather than her words—stood forth, half sullen and half frightened. The princess began to question him in Russ, but as he understood not a word of what she said, he could only shake his head and stare blankly. Then she addressed her questions to Advotia.

“So you cook for the Frenchmen?” she said.

“Yes, your highness,” faltered the cook, evidently afraid that her service would be accounted a crime, “but if your highness is offended at them, I will cook for them no more—forever!”

“Why not?” asked Sophia maliciously; “could you not the more easily poison them, if I desired it?”

Advotia stared, and then crossed herself in the orthodox fashion.

“I have never poisoned anyone before,” she said piously; “but if you desire it, little mother——”

She broke off, folding her fat hands, the picture of submission. Ma foi, I thought, with what security one eats soup in Moscow! But Sophia received the offer with perfect composure.

“Who brought this locket to the goldsmith?” she asked, showing it.

“The Princess Voronin,” said Advotia, so glibly that I could have wrung her fat neck for her.

“She knows nothing, Princess,” protested Maître le Bastien, “she was never in my workshop.”

“You hear what your master says; how do you know, then?” asked the czarevna of our cook.

“There is a keyhole in the door,” said Advotia, with perfect simplicity.

Sophia cast a triumphant look at us. I, meanwhile, remembered the Boyar Kurakin’s adventure with the skillet of soup.

“What I did not see, he told me,” our faithful cook continued, pointing at Michaud, who hung his head now, the picture of dejection; “he told me secrets for choice morsels; he is a great pig,” she added; “he can never eat enough!”

“The locket was brought by the Princess Daria Kirilovna, and the pictures changed by her order,” said Kourbsky triumphantly; “and,” he added, with unusual penetration, “’tis my belief that yonder rogue, after locking me in the turret, went to the princess for your beautiful miniature, little mother, and if your serenity has it now, it is through his cleverness in getting rid of me.”

“I have the picture,” said Sophia.

Kourbsky’s face beamed. “I knew it!” he exclaimed; “I divined the manœuvre; my wisdom could not be deceived.”

“You are a fool, Vasili Ivanovitch,” retorted the czarevna sharply.

The poor chamberlain collapsed; even his fat cheeks seemed to shrink and shrivel. Meanwhile the princess turned to Maître le Bastien and me.

“You deserve the pravezh,” she said, in a terrible tone, “but as I have recovered both the locket and the picture, I will only confine you for the present that you may plot no more mischief.”

Maître le Bastien protested. “We are French subjects, madame,” he said; “the King of France——”

“Is in France,” said Sophia arrogantly; “not a word from either of you. Vasili Ivanovitch, take them to the guard-room and keep the two more securely than you kept the one, or else——” She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

So significant was her expression that poor Kourbsky turned from purple to white.

“They shall be kept, O Princess,” he stammered; “on my head be it!”

“On your head be it!” she replied, and walked slowly out of the room, leaving us surrounded by our guards, and at the tender mercy of the angry chamberlain, who had a double cause to hate us.

XIII: THE TOCSIN

IN a little while Maître le Bastien and I found ourselves locked in an unused guard-room of the terem, and for company we had the rogue, Michaud. If my scorn had not been equal to my anger, I would have beaten him, but the vermin was not worthy of chastisement from a gentleman. The goldsmith had seated himself in the centre of the room at a table, and was strumming on it with idle fingers, his sober glance bent on the culprit. Michaud, meanwhile, feeling our wrath, and, no doubt, conscience-stricken, stood in the farthest corner, hang-dog in expression, his face drawn and his lips bloodless, while he linked and unlinked his hands before him in a fever of unrest.

“You are an ungrateful dog,” his master said to him at last. “But for me, you would be grovelling for bread in the gutters of the rue de Boucherie. I made you.”

Michaud raised his eyes sullenly.

“I did not mean to harm you, Maître le Bastien,” he said. “I did not know that it would hurt you.”

“You villain!” I exclaimed sharply, “did I not tell you?”

He stared at me. “I did not believe you,” he replied bluntly. “I thought it was some trick of yours—for your own advancement—and I would spoil it. I was tired of your airs; you think yourself better than you are!”

“Silence, you cub,” cried Maître le Bastien; “this gentleman is the Marquis de Cernay.”

Michaud fell back open-mouthed; his face turning from white to red. His crazy jealousy of me had made him betray us, and now he was dumbfounded.

“If I had my cane here, I would lay it over the rascal’s shoulders,” said the Master Goldsmith grimly; “these varlets that insult their betters deserve hanging.”

“Tut!” I said, laughing; “if it had only been the disrespect to me, it would not matter; the fellow is not worth the caning, but he has imperilled a noble lady and lost us our liberty. However, as we cannot hang him, let his conscience do it, Maître le Bastien.”

“He shall be dismissed from my service without a sou,” said the goldsmith sternly.

At this the knave began to whimper, overcome with shame and consternation.

“I vow I meant no harm, but the spoiling of monsieur’s trick,” he protested. “I did not know what the great brute said, until Advotia told me, and then he had whistled up his men and had me fast enough. I do swear to you, Maître le Bastien, that I never dreamed of any peril for either of you; I thought that M. le Marquis only meant to frighten me. I am not ungrateful to you, my master, or unfaithful,” and the fellow drew his sleeve across his eyes.

“Much cause you have to talk of gratitude and faith,” retorted the master harshly; “you are a rascal from head to heels!”

“Was I a rascal when I stood between you and the dagger on the rue Saint Denis?” cried Michaud hotly. “Was I a rascal when I nursed you through the fever at Blois, in ’79?”

Maître le Bastien was silent, his face changing. As for me, I saw now the whole matter; the fellow had been jealous of his master’s favour. I was a new apprentice, or claimed to be one, and had been admitted at once to a greater intimacy and confidence than he had ever attained; I had eaten at his employer’s table and done no work.

“Let the matter pass, Maître le Bastien,” I said lightly. “He has erred, and he is like enough to atone for it here. I forgive him—I pray you, follow my example.”

I did not add that I would never trust the varlet more; it would have seemed a poor revenge on an inferior.

A cloud passed from Maître le Bastien’s face; he was a man of an exceeding kind heart, and loved to give or take offence less than any man I ever saw.

“He must win my confidence again,” he said, relenting; “which will be no easy matter.”

A deep flush passed over the apprentice’s face.

“I will win it, monsieur,” he said.

Willing to let the matter pass, I walked to the window and looked out, trying to locate our position in the palace. The room, which was square and marble-floored, had three narrow windows in it, which were not barred, but, as I found, too high from the ground for the most daring to leap from them. I saw that we were in the front of the palace and our windows all overlooked the Red Place and the Red Staircase. There were wide sills, wide enough for a man to stand upon, both inside and out, and beside the third window on the right, a fretwork of iron ran upward to the roof. I looked at it sharply, to see if it would afford a possibility of escape, but it seemed too slender to uphold a man, and besides it ran up, not down, and the chances of escape by the roof were too remote to tempt anyone to take the risk.

Evening was approaching, and below the court of the Kremlin lay in the shadow; a purple dimness wrapped the distant places, and swathed itself, cloud-like, about the foundations of cathedrals and palaces, creeping upward, as a vapour creeps, while above the white domes and minarets caught the afterglow, and the golden crosses gleamed against the deep, clear sky.

I stood leaning on the window-sill, looking down and reflecting on the strangeness of our position, and deeply troubled, too, over the peril that I knew threatened the Princess Daria, and that I was powerless to avert. I could not even warn her. If I could only find Maluta and speed him on an errand to her, I thought, but the dwarf had disappeared when I entered the presence of Sophia; and I had no means of communicating with him. Knowing that accidents of a sudden and mysterious nature often happened in Moscow, that even the young women chosen as brides by the various czars had been summarily disposed of by jealous factions at court, I had no reason to feel comforted in regard to the princess. That Sophia was jealous of her I could not doubt, and it was not difficult to conjecture the result, and I was helpless! It was this that drove me well-nigh to distraction and made me give tart answers to Maître le Bastien when he began to talk of our situation. Naturally enough the worthy man thought more of his own peril and inconvenience than of anything else, and I had no mind to betray the cause of my uneasiness, so we talked often at cross-purposes, and with little sympathy.

“This is a most unhappy matter,” he said gravely, “and may end in a worse way still.”

“It is,” I retorted, “for a woman’s jealousy is like a fire kindled in a stubble field, and consumes all before it.”

He stared. “I hope the Prince Galitsyn may discover the true situation and deliver us,” he remarked.

“I hope he may,” I said, “and withdraw his ridiculous pretensions.”

“I do not understand you, monsieur,” replied Maître le Bastien.

“I beg your pardon,” I rejoined, “but we both hope for similar results, though from different causes, so we are both of the same mind in the end.”

He looked perplexed. “I do not believe that the czarevna will dare to carry matters to extremes against two Frenchmen,” he said.

“Bah!” I retorted; “she has no conception of the greatness of France, of its splendour, its resources, its power! These Russians think that Moscow is the centre of the earth; their arrogance is absurd!”

“It is,” said the goldsmith; “but it is ever the smallest cock in the barnyard that crows the loudest.”

I replied in kind, and we continued, for some time, to give vent to our feelings by similar expressions, and then, finding that no one came to our relief and that we could not escape, Maître le Bastien produced a pack of cards from his pocket and we fell to playing picquet as long as our one taper lasted. As for supper, we had none, and were forced to go hungry, and to sleep on the wooden settles in the corners; for they gave us no beds, and we would have suffered from thirst as well as hunger, if we had not found a pitcher of clear water on one of the window ledges. In these dismal quarters, therefore, we passed the night, and, awakening with the sunrise, found the prospect still unchanged.

Hunger does not mend the temper, and we began the day grumbling at our treatment, and we were not destined to immediate relief; it was on in the morning, toward seven o’clock, when the door opened, at last, to admit Kourbsky and a serf who brought a meagre meal and set it on the table, so meagre indeed that I began to wonder how three men were to partake of it, when the chamberlain solved the mystery.

“The master goldsmith comes with me to Prince Galitsyn,” he said pompously; “his excellency has interceded for him to her serene high mightiness Sophia Alexeievna.”

Maître le Bastien rose joyfully from his seat at the table and Michaud and I followed his example, but here Kourbsky interfered.

“The master goldsmith,” he said, “and this man,” pointing at his favourite Michaud; “but not you,” and he regarded me maliciously.

Le Bastien halted. “We cannot be separated,” he declared generously.

“That is a short-sighted policy, Maître le Bastien,” I said, in French; “for when you have your liberty, you can obtain mine.”

“You can choose,” said the chamberlain amiably, “between parting with your apprentice or your head.”

The good goldsmith, though by no means a coward, was not a soldier by profession, or even a reckless man. He yielded, saying to me in French.

“My first care shall be for you, monsieur.”

“It is well,” I replied, smiling; “but I hope you will first get a breakfast.”

“Come, come,” said Kourbsky, casting a suspicious glance at me, “we have no time to lose—forward, march, sir goldsmith!” and he hustled master and man out of the room.

Then I heard the door clang behind them, the bolts fall into place, and I was alone in my prison and before me was a chelpan—a kind of dough cake—and a cup of water! Both might be poisoned, but a hungry man is not over-cautious. I despatched the dough and drank the water, reflecting that I might need both before I escaped the clutches of my portly friend, the chamberlain, who had evidently determined to avenge himself for his own capture, whether by order of the czarevna or not. Having disposed of my breakfast, which served to whet my appetite rather than to satisfy it, I walked to and fro in the room, lost in thought—and not very pleasant thought. My reflections running so much on the line of those of the previous night, it is useless to record them, but I was in no pleasant frame of mind when I went, at the end of an hour, to look out of the window. The Red Place was nearly as quiet as on the previous evening, but now the sunshine illuminated it, and occasionally a boyar crossed it, or a servant ran out of the palace. The ravens of the Kremlin were circling around the windows and some alighted even on the balustrade of the bedchamber porch. The stillness struck me as unusual; not even a church-bell sounded; it must have been then between eight and nine in the morning. As I stood looking down, I saw the carriage of some great noble roll slowly across the court, attended, according to custom, by twenty or thirty serfs on foot, who went before and behind the vehicle. They were clad in crimson tunics edged with gold embroidery, and yet ran bare-foot, while the harness on the horses was covered with the dangling tails of martens, a decoration much in vogue with the aristocracy, and the duga above each animal’s neck shone with jewels. An old man, stately in bearing and magnificent in dress, sat in this carriage, and at his feet was a slave, also liveried in crimson, while beside him was a slender girlish figure, attired with equal splendour and wearing a long white scarf about her throat, besides the fata over her face. This strange procession halting at the Red Staircase, the serfs assisted their master and mistress to alight, and as they did so, a breeze lifted the nun’s veil and I saw the features beneath it.

It was the Princess Daria.

I stood a moment rooted to the ground, and then the full significance of her arrival at that hour came upon me. That must be her father, and they had been decoyed there, doubtless by the Czarevna Sophia.

I flew to the door and shook it, like a madman. I ran again to the window and measured with my eye the leap to the flint pavement below and knew it to be impossible, and then I stood and cursed my evil fortune. She, meanwhile, had gone on blindly to her fate, whatever it might be, in the same palace where I was a prisoner. There followed an interval of absolute despair and rage; I felt like a caged beast ready to tear my jailers in pieces, if they came, but happily for them they did not, and—though I knew it not—they were little likely to remember me again that day.

The whirl of my passions had made me deaf, but now at last there came a sound that roused me and made me listen. Far off at first, and then nearer and nearer, the bells began to toll, the deep notes of their metal tongues clanging in the clear spring atmosphere, and with this burst of music came the sullen roll of many drums, and deeper, louder, fiercer, the mighty boom of the tocsin—sounded in four hundred churches—rolled like the roar of thunder over Moscow.

I looked out and saw a man running like a wild creature across the square, and then—between the deep notes of the tocsin—came an awful sound, a fierce, many-voiced roar, the cry of the multitude, the savage yell of the mob. A shout below me, thin and shrill, cut the tumult like a knife.

“Close the gates!” it screamed, “the Streltsi—the Streltsi have risen!”

The bells of the tower of Ivan Veliki and the cathedrals began to ring, and near at hand I heard a woman scream. Nearer and nearer drew the awful waves of sound, lapping up the space between, as a wolf laps blood, and ever leaping up louder and fiercer—the yelp of the canaille.

XIV: A DESPERATE CLIMB

AGAIN I tried the door and beat upon it, and then returned to the window and was held there by the sight that unfolded before my eyes. The boyars, knowing well that the fury of the rising tempest would break upon their heads, were trying to escape; in the brief time that had elapsed since the first bells began to toll their coaches had been hurried out and the Red Place was a scene of confusion. From all parts of the palace and the adjoining buildings officials of the court and nobles were rushing out, and running hither and yon; the horses plunged and fretted and the men shouted to each other; not a man among them had a cool head, and never was there greater need—for the mob was coming on. It had evidently been impossible to close the gates, and now I heard the tramp of a multitude, besides its voice. And, at last, in the spaces between the buildings, I began to see the hundred-headed thing itself, a surging mass of men, so closely packed that it moved darkly, even in the sunshine, and above waved the broad folds of the banner of the Streltsi, which I knew well enough. It bore an image of the Virgin on it and was esteemed a sacred emblem, though it was to look that day on dark and bloody work. Now the roar of the mob rose, even in the court of the Kremlin, and echoed about the palace of the czars. On, on they came, driving back the fleeing boyars, like a herd of sheep, closing in on the carriages and horses, surging closer and ever closer upon the Red Staircase.

I looked down upon them in much curiosity; for an instant I forgot everything else. Here was the only military force in Russia, the only guardians of the throne, in mutiny, and who could oppose them? What man could quell the tumult, drive these mad creatures back to their dens? Fierce faces looked up, brawny arms brandished their weapons, and I noticed that they had even broken the long handles of their spears, that they might use them as swords. They poured in from every avenue and gateway, they choked up every outlet and massed themselves about the palace, shouting with passionate fury.

“Down with the Naryshkins! Death to the traitors! They have murdered the Czarevitch Ivan!”

Down with the Naryshkins! Ah, Mme. Sophia, this is then your handiwork? Down with your rivals, up with the Miloslavskys, and the blind czarevitch and his great sister. I saw what she had done, and more than ever I dreaded her power over the Princess Daria.

Meanwhile the uproar in the Red Place beggared description; for the most part I could not distinguish what was said, or rather shouted, but, ever and anon, I did clearly comprehend the cry:

“Give us the traitors! The Naryshkins have murdered the Czarevitch Ivan and the imperial family!”

The idea that a conspiracy really existed in the family of the Czarina Natalia to destroy the rivals of her little son, the Czar Peter, had got a firm hold on the ignorant minds of these creatures, and it had doubtless much to do with the final outbreak, but even after they were assured of the safety of the czarevitch, they kept on in their furious course.

While I looked, the patriarch, in full pontificals, came out upon the bedchamber porch and addressed the rioters, and with him were some boyars, among whom I recognised Prince Galitsyn. But their appeals to the mob had no result; the soldiers crowded up under the balcony and on the very Red Staircase itself; they brandished their weapons and shouted:

“Give us the traitors! Down with the Naryshkins!”

Their wild upturned faces scowled fiercely upon the nobles; they gesticulated and screamed, but, as, yet, no blood was shed, and only one or two stones had been thrown, and they fell wide of the mark, but the sullen rumble of wrath rose on the outskirts of the throng; the naked spears flashed in the sunshine, death was there, riot and murder—no sane man could be blind to it. Once more that wild shout rose. I climbed on the window-sill and looked down and saw the boyars bringing out the Czarina Natalia and her son, the little Czar Peter, and with them the weak-minded Czarevitch Ivan. At the sight of them the rioters went mad; they cried out so fiercely that the voice of the patriarch was drowned. They brought ladders and climbed to the very porch where the czarina stood—white as death—with the two boys beside her. The patriarch talked to the soldiers, but in vain, they pushed him roughly aside and clambered over one another until they pressed so close upon the czarina that she gave way, and hurried back into the palace, with her son and stepson, and then—for the moment—I thought that the end was at hand. The rioters howled like wolves and pressed forward; below a dark mass of men and a forest of cruel steel.

It was at this crisis that the chancellor, Matveief, came out; he was an old man of stately bearing, the uncle of the Czarina Natalia, and once the commander of these animals. At the sight of him there was a sudden lull, the noise died away, the onward rush was stayed; they waited, snarling like beasts, and the chancellor spoke. His voice did not come up to me distinctly; I could not follow his speech word for word, but I caught the drift of it. He was an astute politician, and he told them that they had been deceived by bad men, that no conspiracy existed, that they had themselves seen both the czar and the czarevitch alive and in good health, and it behoved them to disperse quietly to their homes, and, if they did so, he would himself intercede for them, that the czar might pardon this mutiny and attend to their grievances. Never was a speech better received; a shout of applause followed it, and the ringleaders began to waver. All might yet be well. I drew a breath of relief, and in this season of quiet I heard, for the first time, a knocking at the door of my prison.

I leaped from the sill and, forgetting Matveief and his diplomacy, hastened to the door. The knocking was now followed by a scratching sound that had become familiar to me.

“Maluta,” I said, “is it you?”

“Yea, O my master!” replied the shrill voice of the dwarf. “I have been trying to find you.”

“Can you undo the door?” I demanded.

“Nay,” he replied, “I have tried, but ’tis double-locked with strong iron locks, and neither can I get the keys. They are in the bosom of the fat chamberlain.”

“Canst get a mallet to me?” I asked. “In this excitement no one will heed you.”

“I cannot get it to you, save by the window,” said Maluta, “even if I can find one—have you tried the window?”

“’Tis a sheer leap on to the spears of the Streltsi,” I said drily.

There was a silence on the other side of the door for a moment, and in the pause I heard someone speaking on the Red Staircase.

Afterwards, I knew it was the second in command of the Department of the Streltsi, Prince Dolgoruky, and it was he who let the lions loose.

“The Czarevna Sophia means mischief to the Princess Daria,” said Maluta’s voice.

Then I went to the window with a sudden resolve to do or die. As I looked out an awful shout came from the rioters; there was a rush upon the staircase, and the Boyar Dolgoruky, he who had just ordered them to disperse, was hurled down upon their spears. It was over in a moment, and they trampled him under foot. The bright blades dripped now with crimson, and the yelp of the wolf who laps blood came up. I saw them seize the chancellor and hurl him down upon their spears, as they would have hurled a bag of salt.

But I had no time to lose; I tried the iron fretwork beside the window. Then I went back to the door and shouted to Maluta, for the tumult almost drowned my voice.

“Go to the room above, below the roof, and wait there—if I can climb to the window ledge, I will join you there,” I said, and heard his assent before I returned to my desperate attempt.

I took off my shoes and bound them at my waist by my scarf, and leaping on the sill in my stocking feet stood a moment, looking down on a scene of blood. The yell of the mob and the screams of the dying came up together. The body of Matveief had been hacked to pieces; blood flowed on the Red Staircase, blood dripped alike from hands and weapons and smeared their faces with a hideous ruddiness. The mob was no longer densely massed, it was breaking asunder, into small parties in pursuit of victims. Every boyar, every man of rank, was a suspect, and he stood chance of a trial unless he was known to be of the Miloslavsky party. Even the horses in the carriages were cut down, that not a noble might escape. I saw two men killed while I stood there, and then I swung myself out on the ledge of the window and, seizing the iron-work, began to ascend, expecting every moment that it would give way and hurl me headlong on the spears below. But it held, and I was half-way up, I saw Maluta’s wing-eared face above me, over the window-sill. I had but a few yards to climb when a shrill yell immediately below told me that I had been seen; they would, of course, mistake me for one of their enemies, yet could only move slowly and with the greatest care, and, meanwhile, I was a conspicuous mark. Another yell, and then a stone struck the wall below my feet, another at my side, a fourth took me fairly in the small of my back, but I had gained a yard, my hand was on the window-sill. Then I heard a bullet sing past me, and the report of a pistol; someone had fired from the porch. It missed, but now the roar came up, like the roar of thunder. I heard a dying man scream, and, at the instant, caught the window-sill and swung forward, landing fairly on it, just as another bullet cut through my sleeve.

I leaped upon the sill and, looking down at those hideous faces, kissed my hand derisively to them, and sprang back into the room beside Maluta—safe, by a hair’s-breadth.

XV: PRINCESS AND CZAREVNA

I  FOUND myself in a low room beneath the roof, belonging, doubtless, to one of the servants of the palace, and but plainly furnished. Maluta greeted me eagerly, with every evidence of joy; and while I put on my shoes and hastily arranged my disordered dress, he told me all he knew, screaming it at the top of his shrill voice, for even there—under the very eaves—the mighty cry of the mob, in its fury, leaped up and echoed, drowning all minor sounds, as the roar of the cataract swallows up the murmur of the river.

The dwarf had lost sight of me the day before, when I entered the czarevna’s presence, and had suspected my fate when he found I did not reappear, but, with all his cleverness, it had been long before he could locate me. In fact, he had not done so until Maître le Bastien and Michaud came out and were taken to Prince Galitsyn. It seemed that there had been a long and stormy scene between the prince and Sophia Alexeievna, and Maluta was plainly of the opinion that, whatever transpired at the interview, it had been an unfortunate one. The czarevna was known to be in a stormy mood, and though Galitsyn was there, and taking a leading part in affairs, he was under a ban, so far as his imperial mistress was concerned. Then the dwarf described the arrival of Prince Voronin and his daughter, and there had been a scene, he knew, between the latter and the czarevna. The old prince had been separated from his daughter, and both were under arrest, and Maluta feared the worst, with the mob yelping below us, and Sophia and the Miloslavskys supreme. He told me that the Czarina Natalia could do nothing more than save the life of the little czar, that the soldiers had already forced an entrance into the palace and could not be controlled even by the patriarch. As he spoke, I heard their yells within as well as without the building, and the continuous cry of “Give us the traitors! Down with the Naryshkins!”

I had controlled my impatience long enough to hear his story, that I might have a clearer comprehension of the situation, and now I was ready to act.

“In what part of the palace is the Princess Daria?” I demanded eagerly.

“In the rear, on the floor below,” replied Maluta promptly. “I know the very room.”

“Then lead the way,” I said, “and lose no time—I would I had my sword!”

They had stripped me of my weapons, and I felt the helplessness of bare fists. Maluta looked at me sideways, in his elfish fashion.

“I might steal one from the guard-room,” he said, and quietly drew a pistol from the bosom of his doublet and handed it to me.

“You little rogue,” I said, with a smile, “did you steal this also? But I thank you—even if you did,” I added, having, after examination, found the weapon loaded and primed, ready for use.

Then I followed him through the hall and down the stairs. As we descended the noises below grew even more distinct; we heard the fierce cries without and answering shouts within, and ever and anon the sharp crack of a pistol or a scream of agony. But the place where we were was utterly deserted, not even a serf lingered here; all were drawn to the scene of horror below, or had fled to safety elsewhere. Now and then the bells of the cathedrals burst out into wild, discordant chimes, as if demons set them going, and this clangour added a strange note to the tumult.

On Maluta led and I followed; further into the heart of the palace, and presently we passed through a long gallery where the windows, set in deep recesses, looked down upon the Red Place, and on the other side, through a lattice-work, we could see into one of the private chapels, for this was a gallery sometimes used by the women to witness the ceremonies from behind the screen, an Eastern custom that still prevailed in Moscow. At the further end of the passage was a door, and here Maluta paused and signed to me.

“She is here,” he whispered in my ear; “the czarevna locked her in!”

I did not hesitate a moment, I knocked boldly at the door, determined to speak to the princess. But there was no response, though she must have heard it, for the outcry of the mob had died down a moment, as it did at intervals—when there was bloody work to do. I knocked again, to no purpose, and then I tried the door; it yielded instantly to my hand and fell open, and I looked eagerly into the room, but it was empty. I turned angrily upon Maluta, who stood open-mouthed, gazing in with such honest astonishment that I knew he had not purposely deceived me.

“You little rogue!” I said passionately; “how long ago was she here?”

But he did not answer me; instead, he plucked at my coat and pointed to the opposite door—the door through which we had entered the gallery—and there, to my amazement, I saw the Czarevna Sophia and the Princess Daria entering together. Whether they saw us or not, I knew not; if they did, neither of them heeded us, and the dwarf and I, standing back in the recess of the doorway, were witnesses of the strange scene that followed. As they advanced I saw the awful pallor of Daria’s face, but she was wonderfully composed, seeming to control herself by a supreme effort of will, while the czarevna, equally cool in manner, had an inscrutable expression on her countenance. She paused midway in the gallery, at one of the windows, and pointed downward. The mob—nearly silent for a while—had begun to cry out again, and I could see some horror, enacted below, reflected in the eyes of the girl who looked, following the direction of that eager finger.

“I have brought you here to see the fruitlessness of resistance, you little fool,” said Sophia, in a tone that had the cruelty of triumphant power in it; “your father is old, and not a strong man; death will therefore be more easy—but death upon those spears! And death he would have, if he opposed me. His rank avails not. See, yonder goes the head of Artemon Matveief, the czarina’s uncle—she could not save him!”

The Princess Daria closed her eyes with a shudder, and I saw Sophia’s cruel, furtive smile. What devil possessed the woman? I felt in my bosom for the pistol, the spot was lonely! At the moment, came up the yell from below—like a voice from the infernal regions.

“Slay, slay the traitors! Give us Ivan Naryshkin and Von Gaden—the Jew poisoner—and Prince Voronin! Death to these wretches!”

The princess drew back, pale and shivering, but still she did not plead for mercy; she only listened to the other woman.

“They are demanding your father,” Sophia said; “the czarina cannot save him, nor can Galitsyn—nor Galitsyn—do you hear, girl, not even the prince? And they will tear his body, as the wolves tear the one who is slain first—they would do it now—but for me!”

The Princess Daria cast a scornful look at her, her own face as white as ashes, but her eyes sparkling.

“You can save him, Sophia Alexeievna!” she said; “and why should he suffer because Prince Galitsyn loves me? Because you found my miniature in your locket around his neck? I did not give it to him,” she continued scornfully, “and if I had—is that cause enough for a great princess—the daughter of the czars—to murder an old man? Why do you not murder me?”

Sophia pointed out of the window. “I need not,” she replied, and laughed.

The red blood leaped up to Daria’s forehead, and then she turned white again, for the cry came up.

“Give us more Naryshkins! Where is Voronin?”

Sophia walked across the gallery and looked through the lattice into the chapel. From where I stood I also could see the dim interior, lighted only by the tapers which burned before the golden iconostase, and there now was the figure of a priest, on his knees; surely it was a time to pray.

“See, here is the priest, Daria Kirilovna,” said Sophia, “and Kurakin waits below. You will go there now, and before my eyes, wed the Boyar Kurakin. You cannot escape me—there is no escape!”

I felt again for my pistol, and this time drew it out.

The princess did not, at first, reply; she stood quite still, looking into the chapel.

“I can die!” she said, at last, in a low voice, “and I would gladly die—rather than wed that man! I can die.”

“Out there?” asked Sophia scornfully, pointing toward the court-yard where the carnival of hell went on.

The Princess Daria did not answer, her face set itself rigidly.

“Out there?” said Sophia again. “I do not think they would kill you—not at once!”

Daria shuddered, turning her face away. Sophia looked at her with glittering eyes.

“It will avail nothing to resist,” she went on, in a fierce, low tone, “you are in my power; your father cannot save you; you shall marry Kurakin, I swear it! And Galitsyn will never see your face again—never.”

Daria gave her a look of superb disdain and answered not a word, and the czarevna, maddened by her manner, caught her by the wrist and drew her to a window, and they looked through it as I looked through another. We could see nearly the whole of the Red Place, and it was filled with a living, surging mass of humanity that roared and wavered like the billows of the ocean. A mass of upturned savage faces, white with fury, red with blood, and, borne aloft—here and there—on the points of spears, the gory heads of their victims. They waded deep in blood and mire, for they had trampled the dead and dying under foot, the very air reeked as from a slaughter-house, and the voice of the mob! Deep and awesome as the voice of the tempest, rolling and growling in the distance, and then rising in a fearful, ear-splitting yell of frenzy—“Slay, slay, slay!”

I, a strong man, turned sick and dizzy; I looked back and saw the princess standing like a statue. Sophia had her left wrist, but Daria did not look at her: her eyes were riveted upon the sight below, her nostrils dilated, her breath came quickly; I saw her right hand clench. The voice of the mob echoed about us; a raven, frightened by the noise, burst into the window and flew over our heads, beating its wings against the roof in its efforts to escape. Looking at the princess, I felt that she too, was like a captive bird, but still she gazed below and I looked again also, and saw them kill a boyar and dash his brains out on the pavement. I cursed Sophia in my heart as a fiend. Then the howl came up—the wolf’s cry, after tasting blood.

“A Naryshkin! Give us a traitor—give us Prince Voronin!”

“Hearest thou, Daria Kirilovna?” said the czarevna; “he cannot save you—but I can save him!”

The Princess Daria leaned against the wall, her eyes closed.

“You are in my power!” said Sophia fiercely.

Again, the wolf’s howl: “Blood, blood!”

It rose and leaped against the turrets and rebounded with an echo that froze the heart. The raven beat its wings.

“I will save your father,” said the czarevna, “but you wed Kurakin!”

The princess made no answer, her face was deathly, and her lips moved as if in prayer. And below the mob screamed out a name. “Voronin—give us the traitor!”

The princess opened her eyes and looked—not at Sophia or the fearful scene below—but away, into the far distance where the sky shone blue and serene.

“I am in your power,” she said; “the holy Virgin pardon you!”

I took a step nearer, pistol in hand, but the dwarf flung himself on that wrist and clung there, with the strength of frenzy, terror, and passionate appeal in his face, but uttering no sound.

XVI: THE PAINTED GALLERY

MALUTA’S superstitious fear that I would do violence to the sacred person of the czarevna stayed me a moment, and that moment changed my whole resolve. In a flash I saw that, even if I could depend upon the dwarf, I could not deal with Sophia without the knowledge of the priest, below us in the chapel, and, moreover, I was suddenly confronted by another possibility.

Meanwhile, the czarevna had advanced upon the princess and was gazing fiercely in her eyes.

“You are indeed in my power,” she cried savagely, “and you will wed Kurakin now!”

In her turn, Daria looked upon her sternly, her pale, spirited face strongly agitated.

“Sophia Alexeievna,” she said in a low voice, “you are giving me to a living death, but you shall save my father—see to it that you save him!”

Sophia flushed deeply; contending emotions—triumph, gratified hatred, jealousy—were strongly mingled on her coarse features. Never was there so great a contrast; Sophia’s short, almost shapeless, figure and her powerful, determined face were thrown into sharp relief by the beautiful young woman at her side. The Princess Daria had never looked more lovely, more high-born and noble-minded than at that supreme moment of trial.

Sophia took a step nearer to the lattice.

“Mikhail Kurakin should be there now, in the chapel,” she said impatiently. “When I see him enter, then you will go down that stair yonder at the end of the gallery, and I watch here, that there may be no mistake—no slip—oh, you shall be wedded tight and fast, by book and taper, Daria Kirilovna—never fear!”

“He will not come,” said the princess, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Our Lady of Kazan will deliver me, Sophia Alexeievna, from the bad man and from you—even on the staircase, he will be stayed.”

The czarevna looked at her, in surprise at first, and then laughed mockingly.

“Who shall deliver thee, O Daria?” she said. “Hark—your lover’s footstep is even now in the painted gallery!”

I stopped to hear no more; I grasped Maluta by the collar and softly and swiftly we passed through the door—the czarevna’s back was happily toward it—and on through the room where the princess had been confined. In the hall beyond I stopped and shook the dwarf violently.

“Where is the painted gallery?” I cried; “quick, fool!”

Intelligence of the keenest flashed into those ferret eyes.

“’Tis below, excellency, by the chapel; we can reach it by this stairway,” and he darted to the head of the flight of narrow stairs which had escaped my eye.

I followed, and in a moment we were down a short, stone stair and stood in a narrow gallery richly and gaudily painted in the Turkish fashion. It was empty; at the end was a door that I knew opened into the chapel, and I hurried to it and peeped in. All was quiet; the priest stood waiting in the dim light. I turned and found the dwarf at my heels.

“Quick!” I said in a whisper; “can we cut off his entry here?”

Maluta skurried ahead of me, without pausing even to reply, and we had passed through a door at the other end, into a small room that had one window on the Red Place, before either of us paused.

“Must he come this way?” I asked hastily.

The dwarf nodded, and I turned and, locking the door behind me, put the key into my pocket; then I went to the only other entrance and stood waiting. Here too, as luck would have it, the key was on the inside. Maluta stood watching me. I looked around keenly for one object that I desired, but saw it not, and then my eye alighted on the wide scarf at the dwarf’s waist.

“Take off your sash,” I said sharply; “tear it into four strips, so—knot them together—we shall need a rope.”

He obeyed, his eyes twinkling, and had scarcely tied the last knot before I heard someone coming. I listened—would there be more than one? No, it was one footstep—an eager and a hasty one—and it came on swiftly. I waited quietly, holding Maluta’s pistol in my right hand.

The door opened violently, and the Boyar Kurakin entered, so hastily that he did not perceive us until I had closed the door with my left hand, and locking it, thrust the key into my bosom with its fellow. Then he saw me and stopped short and stared. To him I was only the apprentice who had played him the trick with the miniature, and the recollection of that douche of hot soup brought a scowl to his forehead. It was a handsome, evil face, as I saw it now, and I remembered the Princess Daria’s cry, “I can die—I would gladly die!”

“What brings you hither, knave?” he asked with fierce scorn, “to brave your betters?”

“Or to spurn my inferiors, rogue,” I retorted; “’tis for me to ask what brings you here to torment a noble lady?”

His eyes blazed; he lifted his clenched hand to deal me a blow and found the muzzle of my pistol in his face. He recoiled, cursing me furiously.

“What do you mean, assassin?” he cried, feeling desperately for a pistol, and finding none, as I saw, though he had drawn his sword.

“Down with that weapon,” I said coolly, “and up with your hands—or I will send you into eternity!”

But his blood was up; he made a wild pass at me and I fired, knowing that the tumult without would account for any noise. I had aimed at his sword hand, and so neatly that the ball grazed his thumb and forefinger and he recoiled again; as he did so, Maluta sprang, like a cat, on his shoulders, and struck the weapon out of his wounded hand.

“Curse you!” cried Kurakin, “what devil is this that you have for an accomplice?”

“No devil,” I replied, “nor do I wish to kill you; but one instant more of opposition and I put a bullet through your heart.”

He was trying to throw Maluta off, but he might as well have sought to cast off a monkey; the little creature wound his long arms around him and clung to him fiercely. Kurakin stared at me savagely.

“I will kill you for this!” he said, between his teeth.

“On the contrary, I will kill you,” I retorted, my foot on his sword, and my pistol at his breast.

He turned white to the lips, his eyes started, the perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead; he liked death as little as most men.

“Will you die or live, monsieur?” I asked pleasantly.

He cursed me and he cursed Maluta, but his lips shook.

“You prefer to die?” I asked, still politely.

“Nay,” he replied, between his teeth, “I will not die.”

And, with a sudden leap, he threw Maluta off and flung himself upon me, seizing my right wrist, and wrenching it backward in his effort to get my pistol. His onslaught, quick as a tiger’s spring, bore me toward the wall and my foot slipped; for a moment I thought that I had lost and he had won, and then we clenched and rolled over on the floor, he struggling to turn my pistol away and I, to use it—to his death. In brute strength he was a match for me, but he had not my training as a wrestler, a sport that I had loved as a boy, and twice I had him under, and twice he struggled half-way to his knees. His eyes were wild, his breath burned hot on my cheek, and his bare hands tore at me with the strength of fury. Back and forth I twisted that wrist and he held it like a vise, and I could not use my pistol. Then, I got him down and my knee on his breast, though he still gripped my right arm and cursed me, but I tore my left hand free, at last, and changing the pistol from right to left, I dealt him a blow on the head that stretched him senseless. And, as I did it, Maluta came creeping up, holding his own temple, for the boyar had flung him against the wall and the monkey-like face was drawn and shrivelled, but he was ripe for vengeance, watching me for his instructions, and I knew by his look that he would gladly kill his erstwhile master, but I had no such design.

“Strip off his long robe, Maluta,” I said briefly.

A look of blank amazement crossed the dwarf’s face, but he obeyed me with his usual alacrity, and I helped him unfasten Kurakin’s belt and remove his long brocaded gown—a marvellously fine affair too—for his wedding, doubtless! His high cap had fallen in the struggle and lay in the corner.

“His shoes also,” I said to Maluta.

The dwarf jerked them off with vicious haste, watching me with his sidelong glance, his head down.

“Now tie his hands with your scarf,” I told him, and he obeyed.

In a few moments we had him bound securely, hand and foot, and dragging him—a dead weight—to a heavy settle, we fastened him to that with my belt and Maluta’s. We had not finished our task, however, before the boyar began to revive, and opening his eyes, stared at us, in a dazed fashion, but I did not heed him. On the contrary, I picked up his cumbersome robes.

“Quick,” I said to my follower, “I must become the boyar.”

The dwarf had, by this time, divined my design and helped me strip off my own coat and shoes and put on the Russian dress. Kurakin and I were nearly of a height, and the long robe completely disguised my figure, while the collar, which was high and standing, partially concealed my face, the cap completing the disguise. I wore my hair about the length of the boyar’s and, wearing his clothes, I could easily pass for him in a dim light—the light of the chapel. Maluta danced about me, clapping his hands, while the Russian stared, gradually recovering his senses, and the white of his face turning to purple with impotent rage; he began to dimly suspect my purpose, and I never saw before such passion and despair pictured on a man’s face. He writhed, but his bonds held, and he felt himself a fool, and began to curse me feebly, while I put my pistol back into my bosom and, taking his sword also, bowed graciously to him.

“Au revoir, monsieur!” I said, and kissed the tips of my fingers, and then, in Russ; “the bride waits, sir.”

He sputtered—too far spent to give voice to his wrath, and fury blazed in his untamed eyes.

I unlocked the door of the painted gallery, and then spoke to Maluta.

“Go to the czarevna and tell her that the Boyar Kurakin waits in the chapel,” I said; “after that, return and watch him here—as a cat watches a mouse—and if he cries out, gag him and wait until I whistle for you.”

Then I crossed the gallery swiftly. I could still hear the outcry of the mob; in fact, at that very moment there were rioters in the banqueting-hall, insulting the Czarina Natalia.

I laid my hand on the chapel door. It had been scarcely twenty minutes, and I was sure that the czarevna had waited. But did the priest know Kurakin—or did he not?

It was a momentous question, and on it hung the fate of my daring enterprise, on that—and on the Princess Daria. But there was no time to pause; I must win or lose. I had staked all upon the venture—life itself—and, without another thought, I opened the door and entered the chapel.

XVII: CROWNED WITH RUE

THE priest had placed the taper and the book and the two crowns upon the table in the centre of the chapel, and stood himself before the iconostase awaiting the arrival of the bride and bridegroom. As I entered he looked up and full into my face, and though the light was dim, I drew my breath, expecting a challenge. But he looked at me as one stranger looks at another, and showed no surprise, betraying thus his ignorance of the Boyar Kurakin.

“Are you Mikhail Ivanovitch?” he asked formally, and there was neither interest nor excitement in his tone, though Mikhail Ivanovitch was the more familiar form of Kurakin’s name.

The priest was a young man, tall and thin, and wore the full canonicals of the Greek church. I replied in the affirmative, in my best Russ, knowing that my accent even was a danger. He took no further notice of me, however, but, instead, looked up through the lattice at the czarevna, and that other figure beside her and the dwarf, Maluta. My eyes followed his and I saw Maluta bow, his hand on his heart, and then the Princess Daria walked very slowly to a little wicket that opened on the stair which descended into a corner of the chapel. Sophia, meanwhile, stood at the lattice looking down, and I could see her face in the light of the upper gallery; it was set in rigid determination and deeply flushed.

As for me, the crucial moment had come; I must meet a bride who expected Kurakin. I went across the chapel and waited for her, where we were happily hidden from both the czarevna and the priest by a screen at the foot of the staircase. She came down slowly, though Sophia cried out to her to hasten, and I thought every step cost her a pang, but her white face—never more lovely—told me nothing, and she did not look at me; her hands were clasped before her, her eyes cast down, and her lips moved as if she prayed. Slowly, very slowly, she came down. I dared not speak; I feared the sudden sound of an unexpected voice would startle her beyond her self-control, and again, I did not know—it flashed upon me then that, between the two, she might have chosen Kurakin, but no Russian girl ever had the right to choose, and this thought relieved me. When she reached the foot of the stairs I held out my hand, but, without looking up, she swerved aside, avoiding my touch, and walked—like one in a trance—toward the priest. And I followed, sick at heart at the sight of her agony. The whole passed in a moment, but we were not quick enough for the tyrant behind the lattice.

“Make quick work, batyushka,” Sophia called to the priest. “I have no time to waste upon them; affairs of high moment call me hence!”

The priest hurried forward and took his place; the taper flared up in a lean red flame in the dusk; there was not even the accustomed offering of fish, fried meat, and pastry. Far off I heard the voice of the mob and the tolling of the bells of Ivan Veliki. I looked anxiously at the girl beside me, but she stood like a statue, frozen in one attitude, her eyes on the ground, her hands wrung so tightly together that I saw the white pressure on the flesh of her fingers, as they locked each other. Her long ungirdled robe was of some soft, pale blue material, and there was the gleam of silver embroidery at the hem and on the edges of the long, full sleeves that fell away from inner ones that outlined her perfect arms, and a white, filmy mantle half veiled her head and face. My heart throbbed heavily against my bosom and I felt my breath come short; I stood there as her bridegroom, and she had not looked into my face.

We were standing on a square of red taffeta, according to the usual custom, but there was no one to hold a canopy over our heads, though the priest gave us two crowns of gold and silver leaves and bade us put them on, and then began to mumble the service rapidly, omitting when he could, stumbling ahead when he dared not condense, and binding us hard and fast, and I followed him as well as I could. Happily, I had stolen in to witness a marriage in the Cathedral of the Annunciation, and was not entirely ignorant of the part I had to play, and the priest heeded me very little; while, fortunately, the uproar in the Red Place served to distract the attention of that one fierce witness behind the lattice.

Having elevated the sacred image above our heads, the priest took my right hand and her left in his, and asked us three times, in a loud voice, if we married of our own free will and consent, and three times I answered, yes. Then, the Princess Daria looked up and her eyes met mine. For an instant I thought that she would cry out or fall in a faint, and so betray me, such wonder and amazement dawned on her face, and some other emotion—whether dismay or not I could not divine. She stood quite still, her pale face grew even more deathly, and for a moment her slender figure swayed like a reed, and I feared the worst, but she recovered her nerve as suddenly and then——

I held my breath; would she repudiate me? Even the priest suspected something unusual; he stopped and looked at us, for she stood gazing at me with a rigid face, but becoming suddenly aware of the pause she turned quietly toward him and, to my amazement, went on with her part of the service, answering his questions in the affirmative without another sign of recognition. A moment afterwards, her hand, ice cold, lay in mine, and—I could not help it—involuntarily, I stooped and kissed it, and looking up, encountered a singular expression in her eyes. But I could not read her thoughts; she had a greater self-control than I ever saw before in woman. The priest had joined our hands and he began now to chant the one hundred and twenty-eighth psalm. We should have responded, repeating the alternate verses, but we did not, and he heeded our silence very little. Now and then the noises without drowned his voice and I lost a verse, but much of that psalm was burned into my brain on that day.

“‘For thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands; O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be!

“‘Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine upon the walls of thine house.

“‘Thy children like the olive-branches round about thy table.’”

He held our hands united and slightly lifted, and his chant rose shrill and clear:

“‘... Thou shalt see Jerusalem in prosperity all thy life long.

“‘Yea, that thou shalt see thy children’s children, and peace upon Israel.’”

With these words, he lifted two garlands of rue and placed one on her head and one on her shoulders, because Kurakin, being a widower, could not be crowned with rue. I felt her hand quiver in mine as he pronounced the final solemn, “let no man put asunder,” and raising a great goblet of claret held it out for us to pledge him three times. I drank of it, and she barely touched it with her lips and then the priest emptied the glass and gave it again to me, and I flung it on the floor, breaking it in pieces and trampling it, repeating, as I did so, the saying I had heard in the Cathedral:

“‘May they thus fall under our feet and be trod to pieces who endeavour to sow division or discontent between us!’”

There was a solemn pause. I stood looking down at the shattered glass and the red wine stains on the floor. It was over; the Princess Daria was my wife and I held her hand firmly. She was mine, and mine she should be, against the world; I swore it, in my heart, before that altar.

But I had yet to face the czarevna, or I thought I had, but fortune favoured me. Sophia trusted Kurakin; she did not attempt to come down into the chapel, but spoke to us through the lattice, raising her voice that we might hear her, where we stood.

“Mikhail Ivanovitch,” she said, “take your wife away—out of the palace—if you can; use my signet, if need be, and I have promised to protect her father; he is below in the Golden Hall, and I will send a message to him; the rest I leave to you. I must go down to the czarina; I have lost too much precious time already. Much happiness I wish you!” she added spitefully, and laughed.

And happily, without waiting for my reply, she abruptly left the lattice; and disappeared in the direction by which she had entered first, which was also a great good fortune, for I had fully expected that she would go by the room where Kurakin was bound, and so discover, at once, the fraud that had been practised upon her.

When she had gone the priest smilingly congratulated me, but, I think, he dared not speak to my bride. He knew, doubtless, that she was an unwilling one—forced marriages were of frequent occurrence in Moscow—and he contented himself with a profound obeisance when I handed him some gold pieces that I had upon me.

Then I turned to the rigid figure at my side. I must get her away, and yet I did not know how far she would consent to be guided by me. In the presence of a third person, though, I did not now fear betrayal. I held out my hand with as easy a manner as I could assume.

“We will go this way,” I said. I was going to call her my bride, for form’s sake, but something in her look froze the words on my tongue.

She would not take my hand, but signified by a gesture that she would follow me and, in this fashion, I, a new-made bridegroom, led the way into the painted gallery, and then, as the free air of heaven, blowing in through the open casements, touched her face and the light of day shone on her, she stood still and looked at me. And I waited, my heart in my throat—I confess it. But she was not thinking of me, or of herself.

“My father,” she said; “it is my duty to go to him—to save him.”

“So you shall,” I replied, with distant courtesy, “if mortal man can help you. Wait here but a moment; I go for the signet, and to secure your enemy.”

She gave me a keen look and went and leaned on the window, her face like death.

“Go then, sir,” she said bitterly; “it seems I have no choice; though I am a princess!”

I bent low before her.

“Madame,” I said firmly, “you are not only a princess, but you are a queen, and I, your subject to obey and serve you!”

Then I turned to go for the signet and to save her, if I could. And as I passed out of the painted gallery, I saw her still at the window, a beautiful, passive figure, with a colourless face, and eyes that seemed to burn with some suppressed emotion as they followed me—with a look of deep perplexity and doubt.

XVIII: AN HOUR OF PERIL

WHEN I opened the door into the apartment which held Kurakin I found Maluta sitting on the floor, cross-legged, his elbows on his knees, his sharp chin in his hands, and his ferret-like eyes fastened on our prisoner with an expression of malice that reminded me that he had once been cast off by this boyar. The Russian nobleman, meanwhile, remained where we had bound him to the settle. It was true that his position was one of peculiar humiliation, and I could not blame him for any violence of feeling against me. I, in his place, would undoubtedly have meditated murder, and I knew that he did, when I saw his savage, bloodshot eyes. Moreover, afraid of an outcry, the dwarf had gagged him with a handkerchief, and his discomfort added to his rage. I think he had divined the trick that I had played upon him, or Maluta had twitted him with it, for the expression of his flushed and distorted face was that of a man goaded to the border of madness, but he could not speak and I could not remove the gag. A shout for help might have ruined us, and the only alternative, assassination, while it might have suited the dwarf, was not to my taste, so I left the gag in place. I looked at his hands at once, however, for the signet, and saw it, conspicuous enough, although he wore many rings, but this one bore the imperial arms, and I took it from his finger without more ado. The Princess Daria’s life and my own might hang upon it, and it was no time for squeamishness.

“Pardon me, monsieur,” I said calmly, “but I must even borrow the czarevna’s signet, in a matter of life and death; your clothes, too, serve the same purpose, so I must leave you to your reflections. It is wiser, monsieur, to avoid intrigues and to eschew all attempts to coerce a noble lady.” I said this, having myself just married one without her consent.

He sputtered; he could do no more with the gag, but I never saw such hatred before or since, in a man’s eye, or—thanks be to the Virgin—in a woman’s. But I wasted no time on him; signing to Maluta to follow me, I went out again into the painted gallery, and locking the door on the outside, thrust the key into my bosom. I still wore the boyar’s dress, and thought it best to wear it until I could get out of the palace.

The princess still stood in the window; I do not believe she saw anything of the scenes below, however, or heard the noises; her face was as still as chiselled marble, and it seemed to me she scarcely breathed.

I turned to the indefatigable dwarf.

“Can you reach the Golden Hall and carry a message to Prince Voronin?” I asked him, growing to depend upon the strange little creature more and more.

He nodded, looking from me to the princess and back again, his head on one side, his brows wrinkled.

“Then you must go to him and ask him where he can meet us. But first pilot us down to the postern by which we entered yesterday, for I hope we can get out by that way,” I added doubtfully, consulting him as much as my own wits.

His face sobered in an instant, and he cast a grave look at the princess, and I think she felt his eyes upon her, for she turned and regarded us earnestly.

“Will you take me to my father?” she asked with simple dignity, as if that question tested me.

I felt it so and bowed gravely. “If it can be done at all, I will do it, madame,” I said.

And she, noting that “mademoiselle” had become “madame,” flushed crimson.

Meanwhile the tumult in the court below had somewhat subsided; not because the worst was past, but because there was a satiety of blood for the moment, and the rioters were at that very time searching the lower rooms of the palace and the adjacent churches for two victims whom they were determined to immolate, the czarina’s brother, Ivan Naryshkin, and the Jewish physician of the late czar, Dr. Daniel von Gaden. But I had only one object, to get the princess safely out of the palace before Kurakin was discovered and all was lost. Our fate hung by a hair on this event, and I had no light task before me to get her out of the palace, at such a time, and unaided, too, save by a dwarf. Yet I could not risk an hour’s delay; discovery was dogging my heels, and I could divine the fury of Sophia when she found herself duped. I touched Maluta’s arm impatiently.

“Come,” I said, “this is no time to stand gaping; show us the way to that back staircase that you and I ascended yesterday.”

But he showed every sign of reluctance, looking askance at the princess, as if he thought that her presence carried evil fortune in its train.

“Wilt go, blockhead?” I whispered to him angrily, shaking him by the shoulder.

“Yea, O my master!” he said, with something like a whimper, “but the woman—I know not what to do with her!”

“But I do!” I exclaimed grimly, “and hold your tongue about her if you would be a follower of mine.”

He gave me one of his sidelong looks and shrugged his shoulders.

“Come then,” he said, “and blame me not, if ill comes of it.”

I walked gravely up to the princess and held out my hand.

“Will you trust me?” I asked, looking her full in the face, “and go with me?”

She returned my look proudly, and she did not touch my hand.

“Take me to my father,” she repeated mechanically, her face colourless again.

“Come, then,” I said coldly, feeling the hot blood burn in mine, for I was provoked at her refusal to even touch my hand, and yet I knew, all the while, that it was a petty anger to feel, at such a time, and against a woman tried beyond all reason.

And in this order we proceeded out of the painted gallery into the chapel again and to the door on the other side: Maluta first, then the princess, and last the new-made husband—a rôle in which I confess I did not know myself. The chapel was deserted, and only one taper burned before the iconostase, and in the dim light I stumbled once and suppressed an exclamation, but the dwarf and Daria walked on, surely and swiftly, passing out into a gallery lighted from above, and coming at once to a long flight of stone steps that led down and down, seemingly to the cellar, for a light shone across them half-way down, where they opened on a landing, and the lower part again dropped into darkness. On either side were sheer walls, groined and arched above us, save at the landing where, as I have said, there was an opening. We paused at the top and listened; there was no sound below us on the stair, though there were confused noises echoing from other portions of the building, and an awful consciousness prevailed that the death work went on merrily below and around us.

Satisfied that no one was on the stair, Maluta started down ahead of us, lightly and softly, as he alone could tread, swinging forward to listen, his long monkey-like arms dangling at his sides, his wing-like ears standing out more than ever. The princess was about to follow him, but a sudden thought made me stop her.

“Permit me, madame,” I said, and walked ahead of her, pistol in hand; “it is better that I precede you here.”

She assented quietly, drawing aside more sharply, I thought, than need be, to let me pass. However, there was no time for quibbles, and I descended cautiously, content to feel that she was with me. We had gone down, perhaps ten or fifteen steps, and were, therefore, about as far from the landing, when there was a sudden burst of sound from the left, as if a door had opened somewhere and let out pandemonium, and Maluta stopped, stooping down to listen. But even he was taken by surprise when a man leaped from the gallery below on to the landing and came up toward us, running madly, so blind, indeed, that he nearly stumbled over the dwarf and cried out in terror when he saw us. His rich dress was covered with dust and blood, and his eyes were starting out of his head. He gave us a wild look and was about to turn and dive down the stairs, when I called out to him in Russ.

“Have no fear, we will not harm you—where is the danger?”

“The Streltsi!” he cried; “they’re after me,” and seeing that we made no effort to bar his way, he leaped up two steps at a time, brushing past us, and rushed into the chapel.

And before we could either advance or retreat, we heard his pursuers coming toward the landing.

“Back!” I cried, and the princess, foreseeing the danger as quickly as I, turned with me, and we all ran back up the stairs, in hopes of reaching the chapel before the rioters gained the landing.

The princess was ahead of me and laid her hand on the door just as I reached it.

“It is locked!” she cried, and there was a tremor in her voice.

I shook it, and threw myself against it with my whole force, but it would not yield—the fugitive had barred it and cut off our only means of escape, for below us half a dozen mutineers began to ascend with fierce cries of baffled rage. I thrust the princess behind me into the shadow of the doorway, and Maluta darted after her, crowding against her feet, while I stood alone at the top of the stair, facing the savages as they came on. I was no boy; I had seen five pitched battles in my life, and I was under fire with the household troops at Seneffe, but I confess that none of these things moved me so much as those half dozen men leaping up that dim old stair, with just light enough to flash on their naked blades and show the whites of their wild eyes. A surly, mad, long-haired, long-bearded lot, with blood upon them and the reek of slaughter.

It takes long to tell it, but it was not long before they were upon me—crying for blood and vengeance.

XIX: AT NIGHTFALL

AT first I think the rioters took me for the boyar they were pursuing, for they leaped upward, yelling triumphantly, but the foremost, looking into the muzzle of my pistol when he expected an unarmed man, fell back a little on the others, and gave me time to speak.

“In the name of Sophia Alexeievna,” I said, remembering the magical effect of the password, “what seek ye here at the door of the chapel?”

“One of the Naryshkin rogues,” they cried; “and what are you?”

“A follower of the Czarevitch Ivan,” I said, and held up the signet.

They stood huddled together, uncertain for the moment, but already hungry for my blood. In that hour it mattered little whether I was a Naryshkin or a Miloslavsky; moreover, I saw that one of the knaves had caught sight of a woman’s figure behind me. I held my finger on the trigger of my pistol; it would cost them dear, but I had no hope of conquering six.

“He lies!” muttered one in the rear, a great brute whose brawny arms, bare to the shoulders, were smeared with blood; “he is a Naryshkin, or one of their accursed foreigners; he cannot talk without a twist of the tongue.”

“There’s a woman behind him,” cried another, and at that they began to laugh in a manner that might well have chilled the blood of the strongest.

There were just three steps between us, and I held my pistol over them.

“I have the signet of Sophia Alexeievna,” I said fiercely, “and I hold this stair. He who comes up a step further comes at his peril.”

“Kukureku! The cock crows loudly,” cried the ringleader, mocking fiercely, “let us cut his comb!”

“And steal his mate!” cried another, provoking a loud laugh by this delicate witticism.

Yet something in my aspect and the weapon held them three steps down; but it could not be for long. I was at my wit’s end, and I heard those below begin to growl at the delay. I thought of the princess with a sickening horror; it would be over my dead body, but it would surely come.

Then, suddenly, a small creature darted out from under my arm and began to shriek:

“Look—look below—on the landing! There is Ivan Naryshkin—Ivan, the traitor—Ivan, the brother of the czarina!”

They turned with a howl, they forgot me, they began to plunge downward, and Maluta, springing through them like a flash, ran ahead, screaming:

“This way—this way! I saw him, and with him the Jew poisoner, Von Gaden; they fled this way—this way, I say!”

They followed like a pack of wolves, down and away into the gallery to the left, and the princess and I stood alone upon the stair. Her senses came to her more swiftly than did mine.

“Quick!” she cried, touching my arm, forgetful of her aversion, “quick—let us go down before they return!”

I needed no second warning; I caught her hand in mine and we fled down, down—past the landing, where we heard their cries, far off now—down into the darkness below, until we came to the door at the foot of the stairs. I tried it, but it would not yield, it was fastened on the outside; a trick, no doubt, of the mutineers. It was so dark there that we could only see each other dimly, but I felt her horror and dismay and shook the door with all my strength, but it would not open, and then we heard a shout above us, either the same rioters returned or others came. I threw myself against the door, and in doing so stumbled to one side and felt something yield. There was a clamour on the landing now, and they might come either way. I turned and felt the wall beside me, found a latch, lifted it, and a door—narrow and low, but a door—opened inward. The place was dim, but I could see a stair, and I seized the princess and lifted her across the threshold just in time to escape the flare of a torch above us. I set her gently down on the steps, and, swinging the door to, found a bar beside it, dropped it in the socket, and secured it firmly. For a moment, at least, we had a bar between us and the rioters. Then I turned and, half carrying Daria, I descended five or six steps and found my feet on the ground, and here I was forced to pause and look about me.

We were in a cellar, and a large one, the floor was of earth, reeking with dampness, and above the dark vaulted ceiling hung with great brown cobwebs. It was lighted by narrow openings, wide as a man’s hand, high up, on a level with the pavement of the court-yard and distributed at intervals for the sake, not only of light, but of ventilation. But, even with these, it was exceeding dim and mouldy, and smelled too, of liquor, for it was lined at one side with great wine-butts. The cellar, which was longer than it was wide, extended under, at least, an eighth of the palace, and on the farther side there must be an opening into the court, which would afford us an avenue of escape. I listened attentively, and hearing no one at the door by which we entered, I concluded that our pursuers must have lost track of us, and gone upward instead of down. Satisfied that I had nothing to fear, for the moment, from that quarter, I began to search hastily for a door to let us out of the palace, and midway, on the farther side, I found it—a strong low door, secured within by a cross bar and furnished with a grille; opening this cautiously, I peeped out. The door, being level with the floor of the cellar, was beneath the ground, and outside a rough flight of five or six stone steps led up into the court-yard. So far escape seemed easy, but the upper step being still a foot below the grille, allowed me to look over it into the space beyond, and the first thing that caught my eye—on the very step itself—was a blood-red hand, severed from some man’s arm and clenched still, with a long lock of hair in its rigid fingers, showing that it had not given up, even in death. A little further off lay a body, the rich dress disordered, the feet—stiff and straight—turned toward me. And close at hand a gang of Streltsi seemed to be on guard; perhaps, five or six in all, too many certainly for one man, and that man hampered by a woman. While this conviction forced itself upon my unwilling mind, and I saw that we were no nearer an escape from the trap than before, I became aware that the princess had followed me across the cellar and stood close behind me. The comparative quiet without had deceived her and she was in no mood for delay.

“Come, sir,” she said excitedly, “take me to my father!”

I turned and shook my head.

“Not yet,” I replied.

“Not yet?” she repeated wildly. “If we delay, they will kill him—he is in the Golden Hall, so said the czarevna—and they will kill him! I must go to him. Where is your honour, sir?” She added sharply, “You promised!”

The light shining in at the grille showed me her disdain.

“Yes, I promised,” I said coldly, taking in every detail of her face and figure, beautiful and commanding and scornful even here; “I promised, but now it is impossible.”

“I do not believe it,” she cried passionately; “let me go!”

I had not meant to let her see that sight, but her unreasonable anger and distrust led me to it. I let her pass me and look through the grate. As she did so there was another burst of madness without, shouts and cries. She turned from the grille with a shudder and walked away, perhaps five or six yards, in absolute dejection. I said nothing, but at least it was good to be justified. However, I knew that worse might come, at any moment, and that it behoved me to be prepared. I could think of no expedient save to wait until nightfall. I had no way of measuring time, but had remarked the length of the shadows without, and thought the afternoon must be well advanced. When darkness came, we might escape; in daylight it was absolutely impossible. If, in the meantime, the cellar was searched, as it might be, was there a place to hide? I walked around it deliberately, and found no alcoves; there were the wine-butts, and that was all. Examining these, I found that a quarter of the number were empty, especially those in the farther corner, and had been empty long, for, feeling as far as I could reach, I found them dry and warped even in that unwholesome place. After this excursion, I returned to where the princess stood, and seeing an old bench near the door, dragged it forward.

“We must wait until nightfall, madame,” I said quietly, “and I commend even this bench for you to rest upon. You will need all your strength, and it is well to reserve it.”

At first she did not heed me, and then she thought better of it, and sat down on the bench, leaning her head on her hands and looking steadily away from me. I had carefully closed the grille, and the little light from the narrow and infrequent openings at the top of the wall served only to show her in outline. I found a small cask not far off, and sitting down, too, fell into a reverie. My first thoughts were of Maluta. His quick-witted stratagem had saved us, and I wondered if he had saved himself, and if he would find either the Prince Voronin or me again. That Voronin would escape seemed to me impossible; someone must, ere this, have found Kurakin, and Kurakin and Sophia would scarcely save the prince. From this my thoughts went back to their loadstar, she who sat before me in an attitude of deep dejection. I confess that the swift happenings of the day filled me with amazement, and as I looked at her, at her slim young figure and bowed head, I felt the keenest pity for her. I had married her; the thought that she was lawfully mine, even now, sent the blood tingling through my veins, but I had done it on the impulse of the moment, partly to save her from worse, but chiefly, I had to admit it to myself, because I loved her, and had loved her from the hour that I saw her in Maître le Bastien’s workshop; but what of her? I looked long and anxiously at that outlined figure and tried to divine her thoughts. What could they be? She was married to a stranger—I was little more, and, as she must think, an inferior. She was a fugitive, too, and she was separated from Galitsyn. Ah, Saint Denis, therein lay the devil’s pang! Did she love Galitsyn? She had as good as confessed his love for her, and did not the locket presuppose hers for him? And I—like a fool—had wedded her, against her will! I sat and tormented myself with these reflections, and similar ones, watching her all the while, and feeling the charm—a subtle, but a sure one—of her presence. She had feared Kurakin and hated him, she had preferred death—but did she prefer me? Nothing in her manner went to tell me so, I thought bitterly, and yet—rather than die—she had gone through the ceremony of marriage with me, and afterwards disdained to touch my hand! Was she thinking of Galitsyn now?

We sat thus, in silence, until the little light there was flickered out and we were left in darkness, and I watched the openings to see the night thicken without also, but—to our discouragement—the sounds in the court-yard increased, rather than decreased, and from an occasional flash, I knew that torches were burning there. All this while she had neither spoken nor moved, but now that I could not see her face at all she addressed me abruptly:

“Did you kill him?” she asked, in a strange voice.

Her question startled me, and then I realised that she was thinking of Kurakin, and my sudden appearance in the chapel, which must have seemed inexplicable to her.

“No,” I replied deliberately, minded to whet her curiosity and see what she would say; “I did not kill him, though I borrowed these petticoats of his—which do torment me.”

Silence and darkness, but I felt that she was not satisfied.

“You borrowed his clothes?” she said, in a tone of perplexity. “Was he then a party, too, to your appearance there?”

“An unwilling one, madame,” I replied, and laughed in spite of myself.

Silence and thick darkness; then her voice:

“I do not understand.”

“I was in the gallery with you and the czarevna,” I said quietly. “I heard you say you would rather die than wed Kurakin.”

“You were there?” in a tone of amazement.

“Yes, madame.”

A long pause; then her voice; through the gloom, with its disdainful note:

“And you thought I preferred you—a stranger—to death?”

“To Kurakin—possibly, my Princess.”

“Then,” I heard her draw her breath before she went on, “then—you—you married me—to save me from that miserable wretch?”

“Nay,” I replied slowly, “I married you because I loved you.”

She made a little exclamation, and we were both silent for a long while.

“It is a pity,” she said bitterly, “to be born a woman.”

Something in her tone touched me deeply.

“You wrong me,” I said, in a low tone; “if you will but trust me, all may yet be well. Will you trust me, Princess Daria?”

I heard her breath come hard again, and there was a pause, brief but big with doubt.

“I do trust you, monsieur,” she replied, but I knew it cost her an effort. “I have already trusted you!”

An answer from my heart sprang to my lips, a rush of passionate desire to win her confidence, but I had no time to voice it. Quite suddenly there was an outburst of voices outside the cellar door, steps on the stone stair, and men battering on the door with such force that it shook. There was no time to reach the other entrance, and it offered no safe retreat, neither had I time to think; I sprang up and caught the princess in my arms and made my way back, among the wine-butts. She was a woman of such spirit that she made no outcry or struggle, and we were both silent. We heard them place a ram against the door and the shout went up to force it.

I reached the empty butts, in the corner, and lifted her into one, whispering to her to crouch low, and then I climbed into another, beside it, just as the door fell inward with a crash, and the red flare of a torch showed me five or six men on the threshold, armed with swords and spears.

XX: THE ESCAPE

I  CROUCHED low in the wine-butt, that I might not be seen, and so saw nothing of the rioters, after that first glimpse. But, above my head, the red glare from their torches lighted the gloomy arches fitfully, and their figures cast gigantic black shadows on the walls. They rushed in, with a roar of triumph, and began to beat about for victims, and from their actions and their voices, I knew that they were already flushed with liquor and were as much in search of that as of imaginary traitors. A day of murder and of license had drawn to its close, and these men, gorged with blood and wine, were in a high good humour; they shouted to each other merrily, and roared with laughter because one of their number, more tipsy than the rest, began to fight his own shadow on the wall.

“Have at the rogue, Vasali!” they shouted derisively. “Cut the fellow to pieces.”

At which the sot cried thickly that he could not, the black devil danced as fast as he did! And he added a coarse volley of oaths which made his companions hold their sides with laughter.

But their mirth, horrible enough at best, was the more dangerous because it could be easily turned into fury, and I confess that beads of cold perspiration gathered on my forehead when I thought of the princess, only a few yards from them, and almost at their mercy, for my strength would be nothing against theirs, the puny strength of one man against six. From their talk and the sound of their movements I gathered that one of them had clambered up the steps to the door by which we had entered, and shaken it, but he was too far gone to perceive the cross bar and came toppling down again, swearing at his defeat, and fell across a cask that two others were rolling toward the other entrance, whereupon, the three fell to fighting, and in a moment, a wild scream and a thud told me that one drunken wretch had been sent to his last account. Then the others fell upon the wine-butts and began to roll them out to the stone steps, crying that they would have a fête in the Red Place and drink the health of the Czarevitch Ivan and Sophia Alexeievna. But at the steps they got into difficulties, for as fast as they rolled a great cask up, it rolled back on the drunken fools and then they fought each other.

The red light streamed up overhead and played wildly on the dark arches, and the smoke of their torches floated up too, in black wreaths, and hung there, dim and ghostly, while these demons quarrelled and screamed, merry and murderous by turns, and time seemed eternity. Then they got one cask up and doubtless opened it at once and began to drink, for I heard their wild satisfaction after tasting it; they came howling down again for another cask, and a repetition of the scene at the steps.

“Out with the wine!” cried one of the ringleaders, “out with every cask. By our Lady of Kazan, we will be merry!”

At this, I knew our fate was certain if we lingered where we were, for the wine had drawn other mutineers, as it draws flies, and the smell of it—poured out upon the ground—reeked with the smell of blood already spilled there.

Lifting my head cautiously, I peeped over the ledge of my butt and saw the red torches planted in the earth and flaring upward. I saw, too, the dead body of the soldier who had been stabbed on the cask, and yet another lay dead at the threshold, while his comrades trampled on him as they rolled out the hogsheads. I waited and listened with bated breath. The same struggle occurred, the same mishaps, and then they got a great butt up and rolled it away into the court-yard, and they all poured out of the cellar after it, screaming and fighting, and left only the dead and the two torches, burning low now, and smoking. At the door it was dark, beyond it I heard them begin to sing—or rather bellow—a Tartar war song. Then I sprang out of my hiding-place and touched the princess on the shoulder.

“Quick,” I whispered; “there is one chance in ten thousand! To stay is death!”

She had been crouching low, but she rose at my voice and I saw her face, in the red torchlight absolutely pale, but still and almost emotionless. I think she had borne so much that it seemed now like a hideous dream. She let me lift her out of her hiding-place, and when I would have carried her she slipped to the ground.

“Nay,” she whispered, “we can fly faster so,” and she followed me toward the door, though I saw her shudder at the sight of the dead man on the threshold.

I snatched the torches and crushed their fire out on the ground, and then I lifted her over the body and we stood on the steps. Not twenty yards away other lights streamed, where the rioters were drinking at the cask and singing wildly, multiplied now from ten to thirty; the red glare on their cruel faces and blood-stained arms showed them sharply outlined against the night. Happily we were in the shadow, and I took Daria’s hand and led her swiftly up the steps and away, along the walls of the palace, into the darkness beyond. I had to tread cautiously, for it was hard to see and, at any moment, we might stumble on another party. We had, perhaps, fifteen or eighteen yards to go before we could turn a corner and, at any moment, the torchlight might be thrown upon us. Nothing could have been wilder than the scene; that bloody, fiery group shown in the night, as if the gate of the infernal regions gaped to show us the imps at carnival, and about them the pitch of the pit. Once the princess slipped and clung to my arm with a low exclamation, for she knew what had made the ground slippery, and she saw a dark, still thing close at her feet. But I hurried her on and, at last, we turned the corner, and were in a still place alone. But there was even then no time for thankfulness; I urged her on, and we fled swiftly out of sight of the palace, past the cathedrals; on and on—and the soft night air, fanning our faces, revived us both. Twice or thrice we had to turn aside to avoid a party of Streltsi bearing torches, and once more we nearly fell across a corpse, but at last we left the Red Place—the place of blood—behind us, and were walking rapidly toward my quarters. It was then that she stopped and drew a long breath of relief, and I stopped too, fearing her strength had failed her at last, or her resolution, but it was neither the one nor the other. She was still thinking of her father.

“Let me go home,” she said, in a low voice; “yonder is the way—you pass it, sir, and I must find my father!”

“I pass it, yes, madame,” I said gravely and, perhaps, sternly; “I pass it because it would be murder to take you there. Think you they have not gone before us?”

“The Streltsi!” She gasped a little, and seemed irresolute; but then all a woman’s obstinacy came upon her and, too, in spite of her words, I felt she did not trust me.

“I must go there!” she cried desperately.

I had not the heart to forbid her; indeed, I was minded to let her see that I knew best, and profit by the lesson. Without another word, therefore, I turned and led her toward the Voronin palace. As I have said, the street that led to it ran straight toward the Iberian Chapel, and showed the house plainly from a distance, and no sooner did we enter this street than she stopped with a low cry of dismay. The palace of Prince Voronin stood there, revealed in the night by the blaze of fifty torches and lighted, too, within, from roof to cellar, and even at this distance we heard the cry of the spoiler. She stood rooted to the ground, staring at it in such apparent anguish that a horrid thought occurred to me.

“Where is the child—your cousin—Vassalissa?” I exclaimed involuntarily.

She crossed herself devoutly. “Safe, thanks be to the Virgin! she went early this morning to Troïtsa, with her mother’s sister on a pilgrimage—for me.”

“Come, then,” I said briefly. “Will you trust me now, Mme. la Princesse?”

I think she was ashamed of her wilfulness, for she followed me without a word, and we turned aside and, by lanes and byways, reached Le Bastien’s house. It was, as I expected, dark and deserted, and therefore a safer refuge, for the time, and I fumbled in my pocket, got a key, and, opening the door, let her into the silent place. It took but a moment to secure the entrance behind us; a fir-splint burnt in the cresset, and from it I lighted a taper, and then I led her into one of the lower rooms, saw that the shutters were secure, lighted more tapers, and drawing a chair forward, begged her to be seated. She obeyed me silently, and as she sat there I saw the pale and haggard look on her face. Going quickly to my own room, I cast off Kurakin’s petticoats, and arraying myself in my own clothes, went to the kitchen and procured some vodka and a little bread and, returning, bade her eat and drink in a voice of command; for I saw that she must do both or fail altogether; yet, at first, she put both the glass and the food away, crying out that she could not eat.

“Very well, madame,” I said; “then you cannot go to your father, nor can he come to you, for your strength is spent. Nay, take it,” I added kindly, “as you take the physician’s draught.”

She obeyed me mechanically, and her eyes followed me as I poured out some of the liquor and drank it and ate the bread also, for I had need to break my fast. And, as I did it, the thought came to me suddenly that this was our bridal banquet, and that my wife and I ate together for the first time. Involuntarily I looked at her and found her large eyes fixed upon my face. Something of the same thought must have entered her mind too, for suddenly she dropped her face on her hands and I saw her very ears—little, shell-like ears, too—turn rosy-red, and her whole delicate frame shook, from head to foot, with a hard sob—of anguish or of terror, I knew not which.

XXI: THE STEWARD’S REVENGE

THE sight of her grief, or her terror, so far unmanned me that my hand shook until I spilled some of the wine upon the table, and noting this, and feeling my own weakness, I set the glass down and turned away. The room, which had served as an office for Maître le Bastien, was sparsely furnished, and the light of the tapers, pale and flickering, gave it a cold and uninviting aspect. It was a poor place to bring the Princess Daria—after all the magnificence of her home, and after that fearful day, for—as I reflected—half that she had endured would have crushed a weaker woman. Peril and mortification and the strain of wild excitement had doubtless worn her out, and she was finding, at last, a woman’s relief in tears. She wept, indeed, with such passionate abandon, such an agony of suppressed sobs and sighs, that it would have moved a man of stone—and I was her lover. For the moment I forgot that I was not privileged to comfort her, that, though her husband, I was less known to her than the very slaves in her kitchen, and of less moment.

The sight of her distress touched me so nearly that I forgot all this, I say, forgot the restraint that I had meant to lay upon myself, and going to her, I laid my hand lightly and gently on her bowed head.

“I pray you be comforted,” I said softly, my voice shaken by emotion; “if I can——”

I got no further. She recoiled from my touch as if I had stung her, looking at me with something akin to terror in her eyes.

“Do not touch me!” she cried, her white lips quivering; “do not—dare—to touch me!”

It was my turn to recoil, suddenly apprised of her horror and dread of me—of the man who loved her and had risked his life for her. It hardened my heart. I drew back and, walking to the other end of the room, stood looking at her, with folded arms. And she looked at me; her eyes shining and large and dark in her white face, and her whole figure—as I saw plainly—quivering like a leaf. She tried twice to speak, and in my anger and grief I let her struggle, and at last she hid her face in her hand and spoke to me in a strange, shaking tone.

“I am in your power,” she said; “you—you have gone through a ceremony with me; perhaps—you think you are my—my husband——” Her voice trailed off in a sob of terror.

“I am your husband,” I said brutally, for my heart was bitter.

She wrung her hands. “You are not!” she cried pitifully, “how can you be? I do not know who you are! I was forced into it, I——”

“You knew me,” I interrupted, with cruelty, watching her agony.

She hung her head, and the silence of the room oppressed me. The old house—usually full of creaking noises, as old houses are wont to be, as if the spirits of past inmates walked there—was suddenly so still that I heard her heavy breathing. Her bowed head—the white arch of the brow, the soft flowing hair, the humiliated aspect—moved me more than her words.

“You mistake me, Princess Daria,” I said coldly. “Though a poor man, I am a gentleman.”

At that she laid her head on the table and fell to weeping, like a child, and I was seized with so keen a longing to take her in my arms and comfort her with caresses, with the deepest protests of my love, that I had to turn my back upon her and force my thoughts on other things.

Indeed, I had need to think of her safety. Any hour, any moment, this house, too, might be sacked. I could not keep Voronin’s daughter here, nor anywhere in Moscow, and there was no time so propitious for flight as night. I cast about in my mind for the means, and found them, and then I looked again at her bowed head. She had ceased to weep and lay there, half prone across the table, a picture of despair and weakness, and it was so foreign to all that I had seen of her, of her high spirit and fortitude, that a cruel thought smote me. Was it for her lover she mourned?—for Prince Galitsyn? I set my teeth. If she desired him, doubtless, she would find a way to cut off my claim upon her—if Sophia did not cut off his. In this, at least, the czarevna and I were of one mind and purpose, and I smiled grimly at the thought.

But it was many moments before I schooled myself to speak to the princess with composure, and to tell her of my plans, and the necessity for them. When I finally spoke her name, however, she raised her head and, pushing her disordered hair back from her white face, she looked at me and listened quietly, while I told her of the impossibility of keeping her in that house or even in Moscow, and explained my belief that Maluta had delivered a message to her father ere this, if the dwarf had escaped with his own life.

“You told me that your cousin was at Troïtsa, did you not?” I asked.

She bowed her head, scarcely enough a mistress of herself to speak as yet.

“Then we—you must go to her,” I said firmly. “I will get horses from the stable and ride with you to-night. I believe we can pass the gates, and once out of the city, all will be well. When you are safe at Troïtsa, your father can more easily save himself; here, you only enhance his danger.”

I think she realised this, for she neither assented nor dissented, but seemed to be collecting all her forces.

“I cannot leave him here—to—to die!” she exclaimed, in a broken voice.

“Can you save him?” I asked grimly.

My only answer was a low sob.

“If you stay here, the czarevna will use you to threaten him,” I continued; “and if you are out of the way, she has no real grievance against Prince Voronin.”

The force of this argument went home to her, and she sat a while in silence, looking at the ground, so pale and still that she might have been dead, for any sign of life about her. Far off—but sometimes nearer—I began to hear cries and the roll of drums. I grew impatient.

“Will you go, madame?” I asked, “or will you fall into the hands of the mob? I have saved you once—but I am not omnipotent, and your stay here may ruin your father.”

Her lips quivered, but she looked up and searched my face with her dark eyes.

“I will go—to Troïtsa,” she said.

I bowed profoundly.

“I thank you, Princess,” I replied drily; “I pray you wait here while I go, but a few steps, to the stable and bring the horses.”

“I will wait, monsieur,” she said, and cast down her eyes, blushing painfully under my glance.

I delayed no longer, but taking a taper, went hastily through the house, and finding the back door, unbarred it, and went out into the court; here, for security’s sake, I locked the door of the house and put the key away in my bosom, fearing to leave any bolts undrawn, even while I went to the stable. The lock was hard, and I had to keep the taper shielded by my hand, until I got it fastened, and then, remembering the darkness of the outhouses, I carried it carefully across the yard and entered the stable with it in my hand. The horses, two in number, were in their places, and I began to look about for saddles and bridles for them, moving as speedily and as softly as I could. There was no sound, or I heard none, save the occasional stamp of one of the horses, and I had found my saddle, in the farthest corner from the door, when my taper began to flicker, as if from a sudden draught, and looking up over it, half dazzled by it, I thought I saw someone opening the door. Instinct made me extinguish my taper, and then I saw plainly the burly figure of a man standing on the threshold, outlined sharply by the red glare that suddenly blazed behind him. There were no windows, and but one outlet. I drew my pistol, but, as I did it, the court-yard suddenly swarmed with men and torches, and the fire streaming in the darkness showed me that the fellow on the threshold was Kurakin’s red-bearded steward. He seized a light, and flinging the radiance full on my face, he shouted gleefully:

“We have him, friends! Here is the knave of a goldsmith who beats honest men!”

It was his hour of vengeance, but his last.

I took deliberate aim and, the next instant, he wallowed in his blood upon the floor, and his torch went out. Then, I sprang—if I could only get out, and so lead them away from the house and from her! I knocked another villain senseless in the doorway; I leaped out, and, in a moment, the blaze of torches surrounded me, half a dozen men shouted madly, and I rushed headlong for the gate. I gained it, and they followed. Another moment and I had trailed them ten—twenty yards from the house, and then they were upon me; they had me down and blows rained on me. I fired once more and someone fell heavily upon me; I got a blow on the head, and lights and voices went out together into utter darkness.

XXII: A DRUNKEN ORGY

WHEN I came to myself again I was in a long, low room, lighted by smoking torches, and filled with the fumes of liquor and crowded with soldiers. I was bound with heavy cords to a chair that was standing on a table at the end of the room, and my bonds cut cruelly into my arms and about my knees and ankles. It was evident that I had been long unconscious, for they had ceased to heed me, and were intent upon their liquor and their dice. I did not stir; indeed, I had but little space in which to move even a finger, but I kept quite still, that I might watch them and learn something of my situation. The room was evidently in one of the huts of the Streltsi, in the Zemlianui-gorod, and its walls were of logs stuffed with tow, and the rafters overhead were black with greasy smoke, while the air reeked with a strong mixture of garlic, beer, raw brandy, and oil of cinnamon—a luxury fetched from the cellars of the boyars.

Below me the dark, savage faces scowled over the dice and the liquor—their hair and beards so long and ragged that it must have been many weeks since they had visited the hair-market, a place where the Muscovites went to be trimmed, and where the barbers, cutting the hair, flung it on the ground and let it lie, until the earth was covered with a soft, uncleanly mat; as curious as any sight in Moscow. But these rioters, who had returned to their barracks with their spoils and their prisoners, heeded nothing but their drink and their game, and they were already deep in their cups, drunkenness being a besetting sin with both the men and women, especially of the lower classes. They were bloody, too, and unwashed, wild as savages, some naked to the waist, and now and then a tipsy brute shouted out a ribald song, and again two clenched in a fight over their dice, and fell on the floor and rolled there, and I saw a knife flash and heard a cry—like a wild beast in pain—and only one rose up to play again, yet the others paid no heed, but let the murderer throw his dice with red hands. Two others dropped from their seats and fell into a drunken sleep upon the floor, and were kicked aside, slept on, and snored.

It was a filthy scene, and while I looked at them I thought of the Princess Daria, and groaned in spirit. Where was she? How fared it with her, alone in that house, without even a slave to defend her? If my bonds had been fiery cords they could not have cut more deeply into my flesh, while my soul cried out with impatience to fly to her aid. Meanwhile the men drank and cursed and sang, and the smoke from the torches rose and hung above my head in a black cloud. And, in the midst of it, the door opened and one who seemed to be of higher rank than the others stood and looked at them; a tall man, with a fierce face and a great purple mark across his forehead. At the sight of him they shouted, and held up their cups to pledge him.

“Drinking yet, ye dogs!” he said contemptuously; “and we have not slain that arch traitor, the Jew, Von Gaden—nor the Prince Voronin.”

At this I pricked up my ears, but I kept my eyes closed, scenting danger. The Streltsi shouted and snarled.

“To-morrow, Martemian, son of Stenko,” they said, “to-morrow, you shall lead us—to-night we are aweary.”

He spat at them. “Weary,” he said; “drunk, ye devils, drunk! And who is the German there?”

“’Tis the French goldsmith, Martemian,” they cried, “and he is dead, or as good as dead.”

“Better dead,” he retorted. “A goldsmith has no use save to give us his hide or his gold.”

At this pleasantry they laughed and clapped each other on the shoulder, and the man in the door, suddenly opening a pouch he carried, threw a handful of roubles in their midst.

“Your pay,” he said, “your pay—as we get it! Catch who can.”

They fell upon the floor grovelling for it, and fighting and rolling over, like swine in a pen, and he laughed harshly.

“Bless thee, O Martemian Stenkovitch!” they cried; “thy gift is good in our sight, and fair. Prebavit!” which is to say, “Add to it!”

Again he tossed a handful, and again they rolled and grovelled and fought for it, and one man stabbed another and threw the body through the window, crying as he did it:

“Thy gift is good, O Martemian, son of Stenko—prebavit!”

But at this he swore.

“Prebavit!” he cried, mocking; “prebavit! Yea, and ye would slay each other for it, and tear each other as a pack of wolves, until only the blood and hair and bones remained. Prebavit! By Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, no! but the pravezh to every man of you unless ye bring me Von Gaden’s head to-morrow!” and with that he flung away, cursing them.

Von Gaden, the Jewish physician of the late Czar, was much hated in Moscow and was, on the third day, cruelly tortured and executed. But of him I knew nothing.

The second gift of roubles had borne a very devil’s harvest among these drunken, savage creatures. No sooner had the man who gave it gone than they fell to fighting again, each one determined to have the other’s share. One great brute beat out another’s brains with a club, and a small man stabbed the victor in the back, and while he was rifling the pockets of his victim, a fourth threw him out the window and grappled with a fifth over the two dead bodies. While others, too stupefied to care even for gold, drank and drank yet more deeply, and one torch after another burned out and semi-darkness fell upon the hideous scene, and I was as little heeded as the dead bodies that lay upon the floor. The liquor meanwhile was doing its work, and one by one the survivors of the fray fell from their seats to the floor and slept, or lay stupid; until, at last, only two old gamesters played at dice in the filthy room, and between them was a pile of stolen gold. And I watched, watched narrowly, hoping for a chance to break loose, though my bonds held like iron. Yet these two villains played and drank, and neither showed a sign of failing, though the heavy breathing of the sleepers came even from under the table where I was tied.

Time, dragging with leaden feet, went on, and still they played and cursed each other, and once, one of them sang a Russian song, a wild melody, not without sweetness, and his voice was full and rich, and flung its notes out, like a great bell, in the night.

“‘My mother is—the beauteous sun,’”

he sang;

“‘And my father—the bright moon;

My brothers are the many stars,

And my sisters—the white dawns!’”

And while he sang, he won and gathered in the roubles. Then the other, a smaller and paler rogue, who had his knife drawn under the table, began to quarrel with him, purposely, as I saw.

“Ivan Andreivitch,” he growled, “you sing and cheat—look you, the gold is mine!”

The big fellow laughed and brought his fist down on the table.

“Curse you, Nikolas!” he roared, “’tis mine, you thief, and son of a thief!”

At which the white face—sudden and swift as a tiger—thrust him in the breast with his long knife, and the other sighed and rolled over—dead—upon the table.

Then did I see terror—terror of men and angels—on the murderer’s face. He stood with his knife dripping, his features set like a mask, his eyes staring, his teeth chattering, and he looked askance even at the dead. It was the fit that comes upon some men after they have killed. So he stood, for full ten minutes, and then gathering up the gold with eager hands, and hiding it about his person, he turned and fled out into the night.

And I sat and stared. There was the same low room, only one torch burning now, and on the floor dead men and drunken sleepers, and no one to watch. Surely, no man ever saw a sight more horrid or more blasting, but I had no time to meditate upon it. I set to work to gnaw at my bonds and struggled to be free, and yet to no purpose. I could neither bite nor break them, and the golden moments slipped away—as sand runs through the fingers. I struggled desperately; I even succeeded so far as to roll over, chair and all, upon the floor, but, though the crash of my fall startled all the sleepers, it did not break a cord, and I lay—no better off—bound fast upon the floor. The noise that I made in falling had roused one of the wretches, however, so far that he did not sink back, as the others did, into slumber. Instead, he raised himself on his elbow and watched me struggle, and, at last, he began to put two and two together, and his thirst came upon him and he sat up and stared at me.

“I want more brandy!” he said thickly. “Have you taken it?” and he lurched to his feet and tried to drain a drop from the empty flagon on the gamblers’ table.

“I can show you more drink,” I said craftily, “if you will cut these bonds.”

“Where is it?” he demanded, and fell to hiccoughing, and, reeling toward me, “where is it, brother?”

“Undo this cord,” I said, holding out my hands, “and I will take you to it.”

He leered at me slily, as if he suspected me, and then he began to fumble with the knots and the perspiration stood out on my forehead. I started at every sound lest someone should come upon us, and the tipsy fool fumbled and cursed.

“Be swift!” I whispered, “be swift, friend, and I will show you a river of drink.”

At this he swore with joy, and wrenching at the knot, until the cord cut my wrists, he got it loose and I pulled my hands out. Once with free fingers I made short work of the bonds on my ankles and leaped up, just as he began to curse me, and cry out that I had fooled him.

“Come!” I said, and pushed him toward the window.

He reeled against it and I sprang upon the sill. The night was black before me and the city seemed full of noises, cries, and discordant sounds, and above, in the sky, there was that luminous pallor that precedes the dawn.

“Where’s your drink?” the tippler mumbled, trying to pull me back, but I knocked him aside.

“Yonder!” I said; “go to the river, fool, and drink it dry,” and I dropped out of the window and left him cursing, too far gone to follow me, though I think he tried.

I felt my way along by the wall of the house; I was in the court-yard, a cul-de-sac between the huts, and it was like pitch, but at last I came to a gate and, fumbling at the latch, got it open and went out into a street—a street that I did not know—in the Zemlianui-gorod, and beset on all sides with dangers, seen and unseen. I went swiftly forward, guided only by the dimly seen towers of the Kremlin, until the light above grew fuller and I saw the crosses gleam on the cathedrals, and so kept steadily on.

The wild night—full of its horrors—was spent; another day was breaking, and here and there I stumbled on a man lying in the street, either dead or in a drunken stupor, and once or twice I turned aside to avoid a group of tipsy ruffians, but, in places, there was quiet, the quiet of fear or worse, and I went on. The thought that I might be too late drove me well-nigh to madness and winged my feet, yet the way seemed endless.

But at last I came in sight of Kurakin’s house, and beyond it saw Le Bastien’s, the windows still shuttered. There were no signs of outrage, the street was quiet, the house closed and silent. I hurried to the door and tried it and found it barred within. My heart beat high with hope, and I made for the rear door and, crossing the court, tried my key in the lock, but here, too, there were bars within.

Day dawned, a ghastly whiteness shone on the scene, even the sky was white rather than blue. I beat upon the door. Silence. Then I heard a step within, and beat upon the door and shouted. At my voice the bars were lifted, the door opened softly, and Maluta’s white face and great ears appeared.

“Where is the Princess Daria?” I cried, pushing past him.

He fell to trembling, his teeth chattered, he clutched at my knees.

“Be not angry, O my master,” he cried shrilly; “as the saints live, I know not—she is not here!”

XXIII: A SPRIG OF RUE

I  HAD entered the hall, and the dwarf closed the door and secured it with shaking hands. On the floor a lanthorn burned low, casting a dim light, and the house—with its tight-closed shutters—was as dark as pitch. There was a settle in the hall and, overcome with fasting and exertion, I walked over to it and sat down in pure weariness and dejection. Maluta meanwhile shied off from me and cowered behind the lanthorn; for some reason the creature seemed to expect a beating whenever I was displeased or disappointed. But I regarded him as little at the time as a toad; I looked at him with dull eyes. The event had only justified my fears.

“Where has the princess gone?” I asked slowly; “do you even know that?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head forlornly. “I came here last night and found the house barred and silent, and yet I saw a light under one of the shutters. I knocked and scratched there, and at last the Princess Daria came and spoke to me; she thought you had returned; she had been alone an hour or more, and she had heard cries in the stable-yard.” He stopped and looked at me anxiously.

I nodded. “Go on,” I said briefly.

“She let me in,” he continued more quietly, seeing that I was not angry, “and I gave her the message from her father.”

“Ah! you saw the prince?” I interrupted.

“Yes, I saw him and delivered your message,” he replied meekly.

“How did you escape the rioters in the palace?” I asked sharply. “I thought you were surely trailing them to your death.”

He smiled, his little face puckering. “No,” he rejoined, “I ran down the gallery—I am light of foot. I outran them and leaped out of a window and left them to bay at the air. Then I found Prince Voronin hidden in the Church of Saint Basil the Blessed, and I told him of his daughter, but”—Maluta hesitated—“but not of you, O my master!”

“Your wit is as long as your ears,” I said approvingly; “go on, you little rogue.”

“He bade me tell her to meet him at Troïtsa; he dared not leave his hiding-place till night.”

“And he did not think of her peril?” I asked drily.

The dwarf shrugged his shoulders. “She is only a daughter, excellency; the prince divorced her mother because she bore him no sons, and he has wedded since, and will wed again.”

“Is that four times?” I asked absently, my mind dwelling on the princess.

“Nay,” said Maluta, “four times can no Russian marry; even if he presents himself before the priest he receives punishment, he——”

“And you found the princess here?” I said, cutting him short. “What then? There has been no struggle here, no housebreaking—where is she?”

Maluta’s face showed white in the dim light of the lanthorn.

“I gave her the message and she sent me to the stable to look for a trace of you. I was gone scarcely twenty minutes, and when I returned she was gone—gone as completely as though the earth had swallowed her.”

I sat staring at the feeble flame of the lanthorn; burning low. She had gone, then—as I had felt from the first—of her own free will, but where and how? She had seemed to shrink from me; she probably distrusted me, and she had fled—but whither? The wild disorder of the city, the perils that beset her on every side, would have stayed the most intrepid, and how could she go, alone, in the darkness of that night? The atmosphere of the house suddenly grew choking. I rose and, opening a shutter, let in the light of morning and the chill spring air. Then I fell to pacing the floor, pondering upon it, and taking no notice of the dwarf. I was, indeed, half frantic at the thought of the girl alone and unprotected, fleeing from me into such awful danger. It might be that she had friends near at hand, but it was unlikely; the Russian girl—kept behind “the twenty-eight bolts” of the terem—made few friends, and though I knew the Princess Daria had enjoyed a greater freedom than others and that old-time rules were everywhere relaxing, it was not at a time like this. Even while I meditated I heard the roll of drums, the shouts of soldiers, and a man lay in his blood in the very stable, and yet she had gone alone!

I went into the room where I had seen her last, weeping so bitterly, and I opened a shutter there and looked about me for some sign of her. The room was just as she had left it, and lacking her presence it was bare and sombre: a candle had burned out and guttered in the candlestick upon the table; beside it stood her chair, pushed aside, and the whole aspect of the place spoke of her presence. I stood and looked at it with a heavy heart. She despised me, and I was still her husband. The miracle of it made my brain swim, but, nevertheless, my heart was very heavy. I sat down in her chair and leaned upon the table, thinking, thinking of her, and of what fate had befallen her, and as I sat there I saw something lying on the table—a little sprig of rue, broken, doubtless, from her wedding crown and caught in her hair to fall here. I took it up sadly and was looking at it, when Maluta came sidling into the room and, approaching me cautiously, laid a curious buckle on the table and looked up at me with a wrinkled forehead. I glanced at the buckle and then at him with some impatience.

“Well,” I said sharply, too weary and heartsore for trifles, “what ails it?”

“’Tis such as the guards at the palace wear,” said he, an expression of rare intelligence in his sharp eyes.

“Where did you find it?” I asked quickly.

“In the lobby, O my master,” he replied.

I rose and looked about me for some weapons, but as I did it I turned dizzy, and remembered that, in twenty-four hours, I had eaten nothing but a piece of bread. The dwarf had been watching me and, with his usual singular penetration, he divined my need and ran toward the kitchen. I stood leaning on the window, glad of the air, and pondering on many things, while I put that bit of rue into my bosom, a keepsake—and a sad one. I was still standing there, in strange perplexity, when Maluta came back with some rice bread and a little cold meat and wine, all that he could find in the desolate larder, which he had doubtless visited heavily on his own account. He set the food on the table and I ate hurriedly and in silence, for I was sad enough. If the palace guards had been there, if Sophia had entrapped the princess, what fate might not befall her? Yet, the mystery of her disappearance was wholly unsolved. I could not believe that she would go willingly with the czarevna’s emissaries, and there could scarcely have been a forced entrance where no trace of violence appeared.

At last I spoke my thought aloud.

“I must go to Sophia Alexeievna,” I said; “she shall tell me where the princess is.”

I had scarcely spoken before Maluta fell on his knees beside me and clasped my ankles, with every sign of terror.

“Never!” he cried; “oh, never go to her, my master; she would hang you. She never forgets or forgives—not she!”

“But the Princess Daria?” I said sharply.

“There are other ways,” he pleaded; “let your servant find her, let——”

I rose, casting him aside. “Let you find her,” I cried, with passion; “you little fool, do you take me for a man of stone?”

And I went, searching for a sword and pistol, to another room, and had found them and fastened them at my belt, and chosen a long cloak that would muffle me, when I found him again on his knees at my feet.

“You little rogue,” I said kindly, “why beset me? Do you think a man fears to risk his neck?”

He shook his head and, laying both hands over his heart, besought me with mute gestures.

“You will kill her also,” he protested, “the Princess Daria!”

At this I paused; the little creature’s wisdom had been almost equal to his devotion. I could not afford to spurn either the one or the other.

“What, then, can I do?”

“Let me go,” he pleaded.

“Ay, go, by all means,” I said promptly, “but I also must be stirring. But content you, I will not go to the czarevna until all else fails, but I will find the princess if she is still on the face of this old earth of ours—that I swear, on the honour of a French gentleman!”

His face lighted a little at the opening of my speech, but clouded at the end, and I saw that he feared that I would blunder, and, touched by the creature’s devotion, I laid my hand kindly on his head and thanked him for his courage and his wit in saving us in the palace and for his willingness to serve me. It pleased him; a strange light flickered in his eyes, he touched my coat hurriedly, and kissed his own hand afterwards.

“You saved my life,” he said; “I am yours, O my master!”

And after that we went out together into the streets, where the glare of day shone horridly upon a scene of death and turmoil, and those things that night had cloaked with charity glared at noonday and sent a shudder even to a strong man’s heart.

XXIV: GALITSYN

WHEN I left our quarters I had made no plans, and was only determined to find the Princess Daria, and to save her from the dangers that encompassed her at every step. A wild enough design for one man—and a foreigner at that—to form at such a time in Moscow, and the aspect of the deserted streets smote me with a sharp sense of the desperate nature of my enterprise. Fear crept here, behind the close-shuttered windows, the grim, double-bolted doors—fear and silence. Once or twice, as I passed, a grille opened and I saw a white face peep out and vanish again at the sound of my footstep, and here and there, notably among the houses of the better sort, doors and windows gaped wide, and a heap of refuse, of broken furniture and torn clothing, lay piled in the court-yard, showing that this house and that had been gutted by the mob, and across more than one threshold lay something that was neither furniture, nor clothing, nor a sack of meal, though it lay as helpless, still for evermore. Where I walked it was silent, so silent that my tread woke the echoes, but the city was not so; it was full of confused noises, of shouting and crying, of drum and musket, and now and then, of the deep voices of the bells of Moscow’s many churches and cathedrals. Riot and murder and robbery were loose there, and as I drew nearer to the Kremlin I saw ever more bodies and more bodies, lying in the sunlight with upturned faces and helpless hands that would fight no more forever. I turned aside thrice to avoid parties of rioters in pursuit of some wretched victim, but through all my devious turns I kept on toward the palace. If the princess lived, if my wife lived, she was there, of that I was convinced. But before I entered the Red Place I heard the trampling of horses, the shouts of men approaching, and stepped back into the shadow of a friendly doorway and waited to see who passed that way with such an escort. And presently, at the end of the street, appeared a band of serfs, running ahead of a carriage, as they always ran before a great nobleman; they came swiftly toward me, two and two, clad in long crimson tunics, with collars and belts of white and high green caps; and as they advanced I counted twenty before the horses and behind the carriage there were twenty more, and with all their splendid dress their feet were bare, as had been the feet of the Prince Voronin’s slaves. The horses, three splendid creatures, were hung with fox-tails that floated as they moved, and in the carriage sat a noble figure, in a magnificent dress of gold and silver brocade; his handsome face was but slightly concealed by his high collar, and jewels flashed on his breast. It was Prince Basil Galitsyn himself, the rising star of the new order of things, the favourite of Sophia, and the lover of the Princess Daria. And at his feet sat Maître le Bastien. I stepped out of my concealment and called aloud for them to stop. The driver, a fierce Cossack, cracked his whip and would have driven over me, but for Le Bastien, who saw me and cried out to Prince Galitsyn. At a nod from him the whole procession halted, the horses plunging and rearing on their haunches, and the serfs crowding about me, as if they waited orders to seize and carry me away. But I walked up to the carriage itself, and demanded speech with his excellency the Boyar Prince Galitsyn, aware, all the while, of the master goldsmith’s perplexed amazement, but the prince was bent on benevolence. It was an hour, indeed, when he had need of all his diplomacy and suavity to hold his supremacy, and he bade me follow to his palace, where I should have an audience. His air of patronage stuck in my throat, but reflecting that he knew me only as the French goldsmith, I swallowed my pride and followed at a distance to his house.

Galitsyn was noted for his magnificence and his foreign tastes, and his palace was furnished more in the style of Europe than any other in Moscow. I had been there before as Maître le Bastien’s apprentice and knew it well. The carriage of the prince and his attendants arriving in advance, I found the court-yard thronged with his scarlet tunics, and the wide doors of the great house stood open as I approached, and in the lobby, too, were serfs in scarlet, and then I saw the prince very gracefully and graciously offer Maître le Bastien the bread and salt, and when the goldsmith had tasted both, they were extended to me and, happily, I took them also. Then his excellency led the way, and Maître le Bastien and I followed into a grand salon, where the prince seated himself in a chair, carved with his arms and covered with cloth of gold, and signing to the master goldsmith to sit in a lower and humbler seat, he turned to me and asked my business, while a slave brought in the salver laden with vodka and caviare—the zakuska.

I was in no mood to mince matters, and, despite various frowns and grimaces from Maître le Bastien, I came bluntly to the point, speaking in Russ; for the prince knew only his own language and Latin.

“Can your excellency tell where the Czarevna Sophia has hidden the Princess Daria?” I asked, fixing my eyes sternly on him, for I was not without suspicions of the man himself, but my doubts were instantly dispelled by the change that swept over his face.

The prince was a proud man, haughty and reserved, as all these Muscovite aristocrats were, but he could not disguise his discomfiture at the mention of those two names together.

“The Princess Daria!” he repeated blankly. “I was told that she and her cousin, Vassalissa, were safe in Troïtsa yesterday morning.”

I could not doubt that he spoke the truth; his manner was full of a noble sincerity, and, indeed, I think the man’s worst fault was the common one of a not over-scrupulous ambition.

“The Princess Daria was in the palace yesterday,” I said deliberately, “and imprisoned there by the Czarevna Sophia, who would have forced her to marry the Boyar Kurakin.”

Galitsyn sprang from his chair; his face was as white as ashes, but with wrath rather than dismay. He turned fiercely on Maître le Bastien.

“This is your man,” he said thickly, for something seemed to choke him; “does he speak the truth?”

The goldsmith caught my eye and understood my gesture; he rose with a dignified composure that became him well.

“My prince,” he said gravely, “you deserve my confidence and my service; I will disguise nothing from you. This man is not an apprentice, but a patron of mine, a French nobleman, M. le Marquis de Cernay, and his honour and your excellency’s are one.”

The prince bowed gracefully; but the strenuous expression of his face did not relax. He asked my Christian name of Maître le Bastien, and addressed me after the manner of the Russians.

“Ivan Feodorvitch,” he said, which was my name, being translated; “did you see the princess in the—the power of Sophia Alexeievna?” he stammered, in spite of himself; one woman he loved, the other he courted for ambition’s sake, and I have seen this a hundred times in Paris.

I looked down the long room, and across the end of it stood a double row of scarlet tunics, thirty-seven, I thought, and before the only other entrance stood the major-domo, leaning on a wand of ivory and gold. I counted the cost and smiled.

“M. le Prince,” I said quietly, “I saw and heard the Czarevna Sophia threaten and compel the Princess Daria Voronin to wed Kurakin, in the private chapel by the painted gallery.”

He drew a deep breath, his eyes blazed, his whole figure seemed to dilate with passion. Maître le Bastien leaned forward, listening eagerly; I even caught a flicker on the face of the old steward, who was otherwise as motionless as stone.

“Did she marry Kurakin?” the prince demanded, in a low voice, but in a tone that might well strike terror to a weak heart; “did Sophia force her to that?”

“No,” I replied, “no, your excellency, for I prevented it——”

He broke in upon me with a kind of fierce joy.

“You prevented it—and how, sir?”

“I married the Princess Daria myself,” I said.

A pause followed, a pause so deadly that I heard Maître le Bastien breathing like a man spent with running. I believe that Galitsyn thought me mad; he looked at me as if he doubted his own senses, and that doubt alone stayed his hand. I think, on the first impulse, he would have struck me dead—if he could. He wore the look men wear when they strike to kill; I saw just such a look on the face of M. d’Argenson that morning in Easter week, on the Place Royale. And Galitsyn meant to kill me, but after a moment, a moment of sharp suspense, he laughed harshly.

“I think you jest, sir,” he said, with bitter pleasantry, “but ’tis a dangerous jest—here.”

Saint Denis! who could doubt it, with that fierce eye of his upon me and that row of scowling savage faces below me in the hall? It was like to be a sorry jest indeed. But I cared neither for him nor for his menials, now that I was sure that the princess was not in his power, yet I meant to let him know that she was mine—and mine she should be—in spite of him.

“I jest so little, M. le Prince,” I said, “that he who dares to contradict my statement will do it at his peril. The Princess Daria is my wife.”

“Your wife,” he replied bitterly, measuring me with a fierce eye, “by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, she shall be your widow, then!” and he raised his right hand sharply, but Maître le Bastien flung himself upon that arm and held it.

“Hold your hand, Prince Galitsyn!” he cried hoarsely, “and remember the sacred bond of hospitality—the marquis has eaten of your bread and salt.”

The prince paused; his breast heaving with passion, his eyes kindling with a savage triumph, his face deeply flushed, Maître le Bastien holding his right arm by main force. Below, at the end of the hall, I heard the serfs stirring restlessly and the clash of swords. I folded my arms on my breast and waited. I had never been more indifferent; let the barbarian do his worst!

“The bond of bread and salt, M. le Prince, remember it,” said the goldsmith gravely. “The last of our Valois kings permitted his guest to be murdered, and he also fell by the murderer’s hand. As you sow, so will you reap!”

Galitsyn looked at me with eyes that devoured every detail of my face and figure; scorn and rage were mingled on his countenance.

“‘Her husband,’ he calls himself,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “This foreigner, this soldier of fortune—the mate for one of Russia’s noblest born—for the Princess Daria. Why, master goldsmith, the man is mad!”

“You forget to whom you speak, M. le Prince,” I retorted hotly. “A gentleman of France, and the head of one of its noble houses, is your equal—ay, and something more,” I added, as truculent as he, though I saw Le Bastien’s warning gesture.

“‘And something more’—I thank you, sir,” he said, with bitter disdain, “and the czarevna—did she plan this marriage also?”

“No,” I answered promptly, “a thousand times no—she did not know of the exchange of bridegrooms——”

He interrupted me at this; he shook off the goldsmith and came nearer to me.

“Did the Princess Daria choose you—instead of Kurakin?” he asked in a deep voice, and I saw that the man was shaken to the soul.

“What it that to you?” I retorted scornfully; “the princess is my wife, and hark ye, M. le Prince, mine she shall be—against the world, and no man shall put asunder.”

Again he half raised his hand to deliver me to his slaves, and again he desisted, but his face was distorted with contending passions, and he pointed to the door with a quivering finger.

“Go, sir!” he said hoarsely; “go, before I violate the bond of host and guest—but, beyond my gates, look to yourself!”

“Nay, M. le Prince,” I said courteously. “Beyond your gates I am at your service. In France we settle these matters on the field of honour. I should be happy, monsieur, I——”

But the goldsmith had me by the arm.

“Saint Denis, man!” he cried in French, “tempt him no more, unless you would imperil the princess as well as your own head and mine!”

And I yielded to this reasoning the more easily because I saw that Galitsyn did not heed my challenge; his ideas of settling the matter differed from mine, as vastly as the customs of his country and mine. He stood there, pointing steadily at the door, and his face was so distorted with passion that I marvelled to see so great a change wrought in a handsome countenance.

I bowed profoundly.

“M. le Prince will find me ready when and where he pleases,” I said pleasantly, “and he will remember that the Princess Daria is my wife.”

I could say no more, for Maître le Bastien was dragging me away by main force, and the serfs, parting to let us go through, closed up behind us like a wall and eyed us so viciously that I saw the goldsmith wipe his brow twice before we reached the gate of the court-yard. The good man was nothing of a fighter, and yet too stout to run.

XXV: MICHAUD’S REPENTANCE

WHEN we reached the street Maître le Bastien stopped, panting and wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead.

“Lack-a-day, M. le Marquis, you have undone us now!” he cried, between his gasps. “These Russians—holy Virgin! to tell the prince, to his face, that you had married this Princess Daria, and to defy him, too! And he’s on the crest of the wave, and just declared the head of the Department of Foreign Affairs, in the place of Larion Ivanof!”

“Precisely, monsieur,” I replied, smiling, “and let him desert the Czarevna Sophia for the pursuit of the Princess Daria,—of my wife,—and he will find that his house is of cards and falls at a breath.”

The force of this argument struck even the goldsmith, and he was silent for a moment, but the next his equilibrium was again destroyed by the sudden appearance of a band of Streltsi at the further end of the street. He seized me by the arm, without ceremony, and hurried me into a deserted garden close at hand, and there, drawing me into the shadow of the stone wall, he began to recount the horrors of the preceding day, many of which I had witnessed, and to argue from this point that I was powerless to save the Princess Daria, and that my marriage was of as little moment as the cooing of two pigeons on the stone arch over our heads.

“The power of the Naryshkins has all crumbled to pieces; Matveief is dead, and Dolgoruky. Athanasius Naryshkin, the czarina’s brother, was betrayed by the dwarf, Homyak, and cut to pieces in the Cathedral of the Assumption. Even the patriarch barely escaped; they are determined to have Ivan Naryshkin and the Jew Von Gaden. They killed the privy councillor Ivanof, and his son, and two lieutenant-colonels on the portico, between the banqueting-hall and the Cathedral of the Annunciation; the Boyar Ramodanofsky is butchered, the Boyars Soltykof, father and son; Peter Naryshkin, and—this morning—Kirillof and Dr. Gutemensch, and there are others—by the score. They declare to-day that the serfs shall be free, and now ’tis thought that many slaves will betray their masters; it was a servant who betrayed the elder Soltykof. ’Tis just as I predicted: the devils are let loose and no man can curb them, and Sophia Alexeievna is the only one in the royal family equal to facing the crisis; she alone can plead with and influence these beasts, and yet you think to get the Princess Daria from her!” The good man threw up his hands with an expression of despair.

Outside the garden wall I heard the Streltsi screaming and singing as they passed—a tipsy crowd. About us the weeds and plants grew thickly and almost blocked the doors and windows of a deserted house. One great clump of bushes opposite choked the entrance to the cellar.

“I have seen enough, and been through enough, to realise my difficulties,” I said calmly, “but what is a man’s right arm for, Maître le Bastien, if it be not to fight in a good cause? I will not allow even Sophia to snatch my wife away, and I will not leave her in the hands of her enemies. But tell me, how fares it with you? I would not imperil you.”

“I am safe enough,” he replied at once. “Galitsyn will protect me; against me he has no quarrel, and has sent some Streltsi already to keep my house from the mob. I fear nothing for myself, but you, monsieur, you are lost!”

I laughed, although my reflections were grim enough.

“Nay,” I replied, “was I not lost in Paris? Did I not flee from the Place Royale, with the provost-marshal at my heels? Tush, monsieur, I am inured to perils; fear not for me. But now, I would give much for a single clew of her whereabouts; whether she went of her own will or not, and who she went with?”

Deeply flushed with embarrassment, Maître le Bastien hesitated, and then ventured to speak his mind.

“Pardon me, monsieur,” he said; “did you not marry her against her will, and almost—well, yes, M. le Marquis—almost, we might say, by force?”

I assented gloomily, my eyes on the bushes opposite, that swayed, though there was no wind.

“Then—may she not have fled—of her free will—monsieur?” suggested the goldsmith, avoiding my eye.

“’Tis not impossible,” I replied, “yet I think it improbable. She had less to fear from me than from others, and I thought her at the last inclined to trust me.”

“‘Souvent femme varie,’” quoted Maître le Bastien softly.

I did not reply; instead, I went across the garden and, diving my arm into the bushes, drew forth—by the nape of the neck—that rogue, Michaud.

At the sight of him the master goldsmith’s face flushed with mortification; he felt that I had borne much from his apprentice; and he was more severe now than I, who knew, by the knave’s looks and his chattering teeth, that he had hidden there in an agony of terror and from no sinister motive.

“What are you doing here, you rogue?” demanded his master harshly; “have you not done harm enough already, without playing also the part of eavesdropper?”

The scenes that he had witnessed, and the near approach of violent death, had cowed the fellow completely, and he hung his head, sullen and wretched to the last degree.

“I hid here to escape these savages,” he said, “and had no thought of seeing you, Maître le Bastien.”

“That may be!” retorted the goldsmith sharply, “but when you saw only M. de Cernay and me here, why did you lurk like a snake in the bushes!”

Michaud turned deeply red and glanced aside at me.

“I thought that you despised me,” he said bluntly, “and could well dispense with the sight of me.”

But Le Bastien was not appeased, and would have said more but that I interposed.

“We cannot judge him too severely, monsieur,” I said, laughing; “only last night I hid in a wine-butt!”

The goldsmith, who knew me for a choleric man and a fighter, smiled in spite of himself at this, and Michaud cast a look of something akin to gratitude at me. The fellow loved his master. I myself had once just such a follower, devoted to jealousy, and full of sullen fits and the changeful moods of a woman.

“You speak truly, M. le Marquis,” said Le Bastien thoughtfully; “we cannot judge too harshly; but where have you been, Michaud?”

“I got out of the palace in the tumult, monsieur,” replied the apprentice, “and I have been hiding in one place and another, ever since; only an hour ago I got out of the Kremlin through the kindness of a soldier, whom I knew, and who got me through the guard at the Gate of Saint Nikolas, for a rouble—all I had.”

“Ah, then money still has its virtue, has it?” I exclaimed, seeing a gleam in the thick cloud of trouble.

Michaud shuffled his feet in the weeds and stood looking down without answering, and then suddenly he lifted his head and looked at me—squarely—for the first time since he had released the fat chamberlain.

“M. le Marquis, I have somewhat to tell you,” he said slowly. “Last night, as I hid under the portico of the banqueting-hall, I saw the palace guards under that man—the stout man—you know whom I mean?” I nodded. “He who was imprisoned in Maître le Bastien’s house. They came by, bringing a lady, veiled and muffled, and afterwards one of their number, who speaks a little French,—the man I bribed—told me that she was taken from our quarters and—was the Princess Daria.”

I drew a deep breath, and then I took two roubles and put them into Michaud’s hand.

“To repay your loss,” I said, “and to thank you; your good deed outweighs your evil.”

But Maître le Bastien shook his head. “’Tis ill news, M. le Marquis,” he said ponderously, “and an ill wind that will blow nobody good.”

“No news can be worse than bad news, monsieur,” I replied, as lightly as I could, though, I confess, my heart sank. “At least I know now where to look.”

He regarded me in despair. “You cannot dream, monsieur, of going there?” he exclaimed, pointing toward the Kremlin with a shudder of repulsion.

I nodded gaily, as if I thought it a light matter.

“Ay, and at once,” I said.

He held up his hands. “’Tis madness,” he cried, “sheer madness! The dead lie there to warn you!”

“And she is there!” I retorted, and drawing my pistol from my belt, I primed it.

“Tut, tut, monsieur!” said Maître le Bastien, “you dream! Why rush to death? The Church accounts suicide sin, and what is this you contemplate but suicide? Come, monsieur, come home with me,” and he plucked at my sleeve, in honest consternation.

I thanked him pleasantly. “You are a good friend, Maître le Bastien,” I said, “and I am glad to feel that you will be safe. Cut loose from me, monsieur, however, for I will be henceforth a marked man—the Princess Daria’s husband,” and I smiled bitterly.

He shook his head despondently, knowing me too well to interfere further.

“Michaud,” I said, looking to my sword, “where is your Streltsi? I must get into the Kremlin, instead of out of it.”

But at these words the apprentice turned white as paper.

“I cannot go back there, monsieur,” he protested; “I dare not.”

“Are you a woman?” I asked scornfully, eyeing him in a way that brought the blood to his face, but he stood sullenly silent.

“Bah!” I said; “where are your petticoats?”

But Maître le Bastien was inclined to support him, if only to thwart me, and my temper was rising when—happily for all—the dwarf, Maluta, suddenly appeared in the gateway, and, at the sight of me, came pattering in, and ’twas he, as usual, who found a way to cut the knot. In fact, in those five bloody days of the insurrection, it was these little creatures—these playthings of the court—who wrought much good and evil. Homyak, the dwarf, betrayed the czarina’s brother to his death; Komar, the dwarf, saved the son of the Chancellor Matveief and Feodor Naryshkin; and Maluta, the dwarf, was my true friend and ally. Yet they were the veriest waifs of fortune, the most miserable toys of tyrants, the outcasts of society—and its spies. Misery and secret power, degradation and triumph, merriment and despair, these things made up the sum of their short lives, but love and happiness and honour passed them by and left them to perish by the wayside.

XXVI: MALUTA BUYS TWO SOULS

NO sooner was Michaud’s information explained to the dwarf than the latter fell into a reverie, rubbing his chin with his forefinger and puckering up his forehead in that monkey-fashion which never failed him in time of thought, when it always seemed to me that his ears moved also. For my part, I was not inclined to reflections, but to action; if the Princess Daria was in the Kremlin, I would be there too. But there was a difficulty to be surmounted first; my Streltsi captors had relieved me of all the money I had upon my person, and I had only put three roubles and a few kopecks in my pocket when I visited our quarters; it would, therefore, be necessary for me to go there, not only for more money, but for a stock of ammunition, before I attempted to pass the gates of the Kremlin. Meanwhile Maluta had evidently reached a conclusion, and asked me the name of the soldier who knew Michaud, for the dwarf and the apprentice could only communicate by signs, neither understanding the other’s language. I repeated the question to our knave and he shrugged his shoulders sullenly.

“I know not, monsieur,” he replied; “’tis one of their villainous names that make a man sneeze and then forget them.”

This I did not translate, but told Maluta that he did not know the Streltsi’s name.

“Ask him if it is Grotsky?” said the dwarf shrewdly.

Michaud was not sure, but thought it might be. He described the man, however, as tall, black-haired, and with a cast in the left eye. Maluta nodded when this was translated to him; and held out his small, claw-like hand.

“Give me money, O excellency,” he said in his shrill voice, “for ’tis for money that men sell their souls—and for drink, their understanding.”

I put the rouble and the few kopecks that I had left in his hand, but he was by no means satisfied.

“Prebavit!” he cried shrilly, stamping his foot, “prebavit! Can thy servant buy a soul for a rouble or twenty kopecks?”

“Some souls would be dear at that, Maluta,” I said drily, “and you have drained my purse.”

But he stamped the more. “’Tis not enough, O my master,” he said, “prebavit, prebavit!”

“Maître le Bastien, for the nonce, I must even borrow of you,” I said.

Whereupon the goldsmith gave me ten roubles more, though he was open in his disapproval.

“All this will lead to nothing but misfortune,” he said, “and, after all, ’twould have been wiser to let you fall into the hand of his majesty’s provost-marshal.”

“Ah, monsieur,” I said, “you do not know the Princess Daria.”

Le Bastien shook his head despairingly. “No,” he replied, “and ’tis well I do not, since she can turn a sane man’s head so completely.”

While he was speaking I was giving the money to the dwarf, and trying to fathom his plans, but to no purpose, he would tell nothing—only looked at me, in an elfish fashion.

“Let be, O excellency,” he said; “I will go to the Kremlin and by nightfall I will return to you, then we will go together, and we will find the Princess Daria, if she is still in the fortress.”

My faith in his acuteness was growing to be almost a superstition, but it was too much to ask me to wait from noon until nightfall, and I told him so.

“You must wait,” he replied wisely. “You cannot go—as I can—in and out of the palaces and the cathedrals; you are big—a tall man,” he measured me with his eye, as though he thought me a giant. “Such a man cannot hide—any more than the Tower of Ivan Veliki can hide among the churches! I must find where the lady is, and then I must come for my master. Nay, fear not—she is safe to-day and to-morrow and the day after; not even Sophia Alexeievna rules to-day, but only the Streltsi. They have mobbed the Department of Justice and Serfage; they have thrown the papers in the street, they have threatened the Danish Resident, they would have killed the patriarch. Sophia will do nothing yet to the princess, for she has hidden her, and to-night we will find her.”

“Nay, now we will find her,” I said, determined to go with him.

But he fell on his knees. “Have I failed you at all, O excellency?” he cried.

I was forced to admit that he had, on the contrary, saved my life and hers.

“Then give me two hours—two hours and eleven roubles, O my master,” he said, “and surely I may buy a man’s soul and also his body—for there is vodka yet in the cellar—where, they know not—and red wine.”

“The little fellow talks sense, monsieur,” said the goldsmith; “I pray you be ruled; give him, at least, two hours. It is madness for you to attempt the Kremlin now. Until they find the poor Jew, Von Gaden, they will suspect every man in foreign clothes. Come, therefore, to our quarters; two hours of rest, and food, and more money will but prepare you for this desperate adventure.”

I knew there was truth in his argument, and my need of money was absolute if I was to take the princess out of Moscow. So, hard as it was to wait, I yielded, at last, to their entreaties, and went back to our quarters for two hours’ rest, of which I stood in great need, and for money and another pistol.

Prince Galitsyn had kept his promise and sent Maître le Bastien a guard of Streltsi; a score of villainous-looking knaves who were as ready to rob us as to watch us, and sat about the court-yard making frequent demands for brandy and meat, and their presence proving a cause for fresh alarms to the goldsmith, who kept the shutters up and the doors bolted and busied himself hiding his valuables in the earth of the cellar, assisted by Michaud. Meanwhile, stretched myself on my bed, in my clothes, resolved to rest but a few moments; however, we are only human, and my body was worn out with continued exertions and loss of sleep, and I had hardly touched the pillow before I dropped off into the heavy slumber of sheer exhaustion.

My room being in the second story, the shutter of the one window was open and the red glow of sunset shone full in my face when I awoke, and, for a moment, kept me from seeing Maluta, who was standing beside me, watching my slightest movement. With the return of consciousness came back the memory of my situation, and I started up, and began to snatch up my weapons. The sweet air of a May evening came softly in at the casement, and with it far-off sounds, harsh cries, and discordant music.

“Where is she?” I cried. “Why have I slept like a brute? Where is the Princess Daria?”

“She is safe,” replied the dwarf gravely, “and ’tis well that my master slept, for we must work to-night and travel to-night, if we would get her away, from the czarevna and from Kurakin.”

I had, by this time, arranged my disordered clothing and belted on my weapons, and now I hid a bag of gold upon my person.

“Was the money sufficient?” I asked eagerly.

He nodded gravely. “The souls were cheap this day,” he said solemnly. “I bought two for nine roubles and two kopecks, and the rest of the money I put into good liquor, and the drug that they keep in the Gostinnoi Dvor, in the street of sweet perfumes and spices and myrrh and aloes.”

By this he referred to the divisions of the Gostinnoi Dvor, or great bazaar, where every commodity had a separate street, and a man could find only silk merchants in one avenue, and dealers in jewels—opals and pearls and the great amethysts of Russia—in another.

“Come, then,” I said with impatience, “let us go!”

He nodded his assent, and without more delay we descended the stairs together, and I went to bid Maître le Bastien farewell. I found him burrowing, like a mole, in the cellar.

“The Prince Galitsyn means well to me,” the good man said earnestly, “but these Streltsi have already demanded a rouble apiece, a flagon of good brandy, and ten loaves of rice bread, besides the pickled mushrooms and the fine sterlet, that I would have kept for my dinner! Moreover, Michaud and I are spent with hard labour, but, praised be the saints! everything is buried now but the great vase, and that being for Sophia, I think they will leave it.”

“Unless they sell it to satisfy their stomachs,” I replied; “but adieu, Maître le Bastien, I go on a perilous enterprise, and may not soon see you again.”

The goldsmith wiped his eyes surreptitiously, and then shook my hand heartily.

“Farewell,” he said; “you go against my counsel and my will, but yet—I suppose, if I were young, I would do likewise! But, I pray you, be cautious, if you can, and if I can do aught——”

“But you cannot, monsieur,” I interrupted heartily, “nor do I wish you in this tangle,” and I bade him a hasty farewell and hurried away, lest he should delay me by more arguments.

It took us a few moments more to get past our own Streltsi, and then Maluta and I struck off into the lanes that led through some byways to the Kremlin, avoiding the short route which would have taken us into the crowded quarter.

The city still wore its desolate air and, by contrast with the sky, yet glowing with sunset, it seemed dark and haunted with the grimmest of shadows. Close-shuttered windows and barred doors surrounded us; not a woman looked out, not a child ran in the court-yards, and if we chanced on a peaceful citizen, he skurried away at the sight of an armed man. As we neared the Gate of Saint Nikolas, I saw that it was occupied by a guard of Streltsi, and the dwarf signed to me to advance slowly, while he began to whistle softly, holding his hands over his mouth. Then I saw one of the guards at the gate lounge toward us, and began to suspect Maluta’s designs. When the soldier had placed a few yards between himself and his comrades, he quickened his steps and the dwarf whispered to me to keep close to the wall of the house, in front of which we had halted, while he sidled forward, crab-fashion, to meet the Streltsi; and I saw that he must have saved some money, for it changed hands before my eyes. Then he called to me in a low voice:

“We will go forward now, excellency,” he said. “Way here, for the ambassador to their czarish majesties!” he added, in his shrillest tone, clapping his hands.

The soldier bowed low and saluted, and then walked before me, with Maluta, crying:

“Way for the ambassador to the czar and czarevitch!”

The Streltsi at the gate stared curiously; they had been well enough supplied with liquor to be happy, but they could not let me pass until one of their number, who knew Von Gaden, was called.

“Is this the Jew doctor?” they demanded, “for, by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, he shall not escape us!”

But the fellow, happily, shook his head. “This is not the Jew!” he declared.

And my Streltsi, all the while, cried out:

“’Tis an ambassador from the French King to their czarish majesties; the okolnitchy bade me pass him. Way there, or your beards will be plucked out by the roots, and ye will have the pravezh!”

But I found a speedier remedy, and quietly drew some money from my wallet and cast a handful of it among them, and in the fierce scramble for it, I slipped through the gate and hurried away towards the Red Place, at the top of my speed, with Maluta at my heels. I who, but yesterday, had struggled so hard to get out of the Kremlin, had now paid high to be in again, and rejoiced at my good fortune. I clapped my hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“Maluta,” I cried, “you deserve to be a prime minister, I——”

But he put his finger on his lips, and catching hold of the skirt of my coat, hurried along under the shadow of the Cathedral of Saint Basil the Blessed. At last he stopped and pointed at a narrow door in the lower part of the Palace of Facets.

“Yonder,” he whispered, “beyond that door, is a room with no windows, and in it is the Princess Daria.”

I caught my breath sharply. “Let us go in,” I cried.

But he seized my sleeve. “Stay,” he whispered, and his thin, three-cornered face showed white in the dusk.

“In the entry there is a soldier, but he drinks good wine,” he said, “wine that thy servant bought, and also the stuff from the Gostinnoi Dvor, and at this hour he troubles us but little. But one false step—one outcry—one whisper—and——”

He put his hand to his throat with a significant gesture.

“It is death,” he said, “for you—and for her, the shaved head!”

And that was a living death for a Russian woman.

XXVII: “IS IT THOU?”

WE stood in the parvis of the cathedral, in the deep shadows that fall at dusk, but the light still streamed broadly over the Red Place—the Palace Beautiful, as the Russians love to call it—and across the square I caught the gleam of golden crosses against the sky. It was silent—with the silence of terror. A guard of Streltsi sat on the Red Staircase, throwing dice, but their voices were subdued. Some dark figures flitted softly across the portico, between the cathedral and the banqueting-hall. Lights shone fitfully in the windows of the palace. An officer of the guard lighted a pine torch, and it flared up in a vivid tongue of flame, throwing his burly figure and dark face into relief. He was scarcely twenty yards away from the spot where Maluta and I stood waiting. I pressed my hand heavily on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“Whether it is death or not, I must enter that prison,” I said, in a low tone.

He nodded, motioning to me to be silent, and pointing. I followed the direction of his finger with my eyes and saw a short, stout female figure on the portico, accompanied by two men. The three stood a while talking together, in subdued voices, and then they entered the palace and I drew my breath more easily. At least, they had not entered by that low door that would lead them to the princess. Meanwhile the officer with the torch had walked away and the soldiers were busy with their dice. Maluta stripped off a short cloak he wore and drew his dagger.

“I am going in,” he said, “and when I whistle, the door will be unbarred. Then it will rest with you, O excellency!”

“Go, then,” I exclaimed, with impatience, “and make haste, in the name of your patron saint!”

He stooped low and scudded across the space that intervened between the cathedral and that low door, and I watched eagerly to see how he intended to enter, for I purposed following without more delay. But a few moments sufficed to show me the futility of such a design, for the dwarf did not go to the door; he made straight for a window ten feet away—to the left—and swinging himself up on the ledges of the stone copings, as I had seen him do that first day in Kurakin’s court-yard, he reached the window-sill, and here I thought to see him balked, for I could plainly perceive the iron bars across it. However, I was destined to another surprise, for he stopped, and, hanging on the ledge, began to work at the farthest bar on the left-hand side, and in a moment he had it out and began to wriggle through the opening, which was scarcely large enough, to my eyes, to admit a monkey, and, small as the dwarf was, he had much ado to squeeze and twist his body through, but finally he disappeared within, and left me writhing with impatience without. The creature’s cleverness had, by this time, so far impressed me that I was given to expecting marvels from him, and I knew that he had a liberty about the palace—in common with the other dwarfs—that no one else had, or even dreamed of. So I forced myself to await his signal and to use all the caution that I could, reflecting that a misstep now would ruin the adventure, and, perhaps, separate me from the princess. In this frame of mind, certainly not a happy one, I waited in the ever increasing shadow, and watched and listened for ten minutes, which I took—in that mood—for two hours, though sober reflection afterwards showed me that the time was short, as men count it. I thought of Maluta’s possible failure, of the death or removal of the prisoner, while we had delayed, of a change of guard, of the arrival of Sophia, of a dozen things, in fact, that might wreck my happiness for all time.

And then I heard Maluta’s shrill whistle.

I drew my sword, trusting the silent weapon rather than the noisy one, and in a moment I was at the door and had pushed it inward. So far all was well: I stepped in and closed it quickly behind me. Before me I saw a long narrow passage lighted by a single lanthorn swung on the wall. Under it stood Maluta, and farther on I saw the figure of a man sitting at a table with his back toward me. The light shone on me, and Maluta saw me grasp my weapon more tightly, and he laughed—his shrill little laugh.

“He sleeps, O my master,” he said, wagging his head; “he sleeps well—come and look at him.”

I thought the rogue had killed him, but a glance told me that the man slept heavily, as a drunken or a drugged person does. His head hung forward on his breast and his mouth was open, while he breathed deeply, and his arms hung limp at his sides. I drew a bunch of keys from his belt.

“Is that the door?” I asked Maluta, pointing at the end of the passage.

He nodded and I went swiftly forward. It was strongly secured with both locks and bars, but I removed the latter and found a key, in the guard’s bunch, to undo the former. Then I tapped upon the door and called the princess by name. At first there was no answer, nor indeed any sound within, though there was a grille in the upper half, doubtless to admit the air, and I was on the point of opening it when I heard a soft step on the other side, and then silence as though she listened.

“Princess,” I called gently, “Princess Daria—open the door, I pray you.”

I heard a little cry—quivering and soft and, I thought, joyful—and the door was opened.

“Is it thou?” she exclaimed eagerly.

A sudden joy filled my heart, I took a step forward flushed, expectant, forgetful of all but her and my love for her. But her cell was lighted, too, by a lanthorn, and as its rays fell on my face she retreated—not angrily, or even coldly—but with a sudden timidity that chilled me. After all, the welcome was not for me, but for her deliverer.

“Thanks be to the saints that I have found you, madame,” I said gravely, “though you were over ready to leave my house for this.”

She hung her head. “I am punished for it, monsieur,” she said, with proud humility; “the whole world seemed to have forgotten me here.”

“But not I,” I said.

She glanced up swiftly and then down. “But not you, sir,” she repeated like a child, and seemed to smile, but I thought that it was the flicker of the light on her face, or my eyes deceived me.

“Come,” I said, putting aside my emotion, “are you ready? We must fly this place—now, at once, or all will be lost.”

“Am I ready?” she cried, with deep emotion. “Holy Virgin, have I not prayed to go?” and she gathered up her mantle and hood.

“Come, then,” I replied, “we must depend again on the dwarf, but I feel sure he will not fail us, and once out of this, all will be well.”

She had her cloak on now and, with trembling fingers, she tied her hood over her head and concealed her features under its full folds. Then she followed me into the hall, and I bade Maluta open the door for us, while I extinguished the lanthorn. At the threshold I took her hand in mine and felt it quiver and then lie still. Maluta crept out, peering into the dusk, and beckoned to us, and we followed cautiously, keeping close to the palace walls and avoiding the portico. The soldiers were still playing on the staircase, and here and there, in the great square, a torch streamed red fire. We gained the parvis of the cathedral and there the dwarf and I consulted and decided to go out by the gate at which we had entered, depending on our bribes, and it was fortunate that we did so, for, at the other gates, as I learned afterwards, the guards were doubled, and here my money had bought liquor, and drunkenness—their besetting sin—helped us. Two of the rogues slept at their posts, and three were quarrelling over a flagon, and, of the other two, one was the soul that Maluta had purchased, and the other I bought now for two roubles. There was some grumbling, some coarse jests about the ambassador returning with a lady, and there was need for determination and the strong hand, and I used it. The only rogue who would have plucked at Daria’s cloak and looked into her face I struck over the head with the flat of my sword, and he fell with a thud and lay so still that the others fell back, and our Streltsi crying: “Way, way for the ambassador!” we pushed through, and turning to the right, fled down the bank of the river. The cries of the guards grew fainter, the spot was very dark and lonely, the damp air from the water touched our faces softly, above us the stars shone in a serene heaven. We sped on, skirting the ramparts of the Kremlin, and presently we saw the yellow light streaming from the lamp before the image at the Gate of the Redeemer; it shone like a star in the darkness, this light that burned there night and day, year after year, reddening the snow in winter, brightening the shorter nights of summer. As we drew nearer the princess slipped her hand from mine and knelt down, facing the image, and I paused; stern as the peril was, and unsafe as the place could be, at any moment, I had not the heart to disturb her. She prayed; offering a thanksgiving doubtless, and a prayer, too, for deliverance from her danger and perhaps from me. The thought made me stir sharply, and she rose and we walked on in silence.

I had bethought me of a man in the German quarter, an honest Bavarian, who would let me hire two horses, and I sent Maluta running ahead to him with money in his hand for that purpose, and with my drawn sword in my right hand, and my left on her shoulder, we followed swiftly, avoiding every torch and every group of people, and twice stumbling over corpses, for, as yet, the dead lay unburied. We had left the Kremlin behind us and were nearing our destination, when she spoke very softly, but distinctly.

“I wish to tell you, monsieur,” she said, “that I did not wilfully leave your house. I was deceived—the men who came bore my father’s signet.”

I started; then the prince might be dead or a prisoner—but she divined my thoughts.

“My father is not dead,” she continued; “I know, from what I heard in the palace, that the ring was stolen from him, but he escaped, and is, I hope, at Troïtsa. But, sir, you wronged me—in thinking I went, of my own will, to—to——”

“To Kurakin,” I said briefly.

She drew her hood closer, forgetting that the dusk veiled her features.

“Or the czarevna,” she murmured.

“You mistake me,” I replied cruelly. “I did not think that or the other. It would seem more likely that another would deliver you.”

“Who, sir?” she asked coldly, stopping short.

“The noble Prince Galitsyn, madame,” I retorted. I heard her draw her breath so sharply that it seemed like a sob, but she turned her back on me and walked on swiftly—so swiftly that I had to hasten my steps to keep up with hers, nor would she speak to me again, even in answer to a question. And, in this mood, I placed her, at last, upon a horse I had hired for her, and mounting myself, I bade Maluta go to Le Bastien and await my return, or news from me. Then the princess and I rode on, by lanes and byways, through the Zemlianui-gorod, and, at last, into the open country beyond the town, turning our faces northeast, toward the sacred monastery of Troïtsa, where I was certain of a safe asylum for her, for a time, at least.

XXXIII: THE HUT ON THE ROAD

WE had left the city and its turbulence and bloodshed behind us, and we rode, side by side, along the quiet country highway, in the soft darkness of a May evening, the stars above us, and a sweet freshness in the air. It was impossible not to feel relief and almost joy at our deliverance and our freedom. My spirits rose rapidly, I breathed deeply, and held my head high; the quiet, the serene atmosphere, the even hoof-beats, were all so many blessings, and I thought she shared my exhilaration, for—at the moment—she sat erect and kept her horse at a smart pace; yet she did not speak to me, and I could only discern her outline in the darkness. At first I had almost dreaded pursuit, but after we had traversed a league in safety I cast even this anxiety from me and went on with a light heart.

The curtain of the night hung low, for there was no moon, yet I could discern the vast sweep of the steppe, as we ascended, for the ground rose steadily toward the northeast, and I was watchful to keep to the road, a lonely one at best, save for the pilgrims travelling from Moscow to worship at the famous shrine of Saint Sergius. At another time I should have felt the risk of travelling with a woman upon this highway, without armed attendants, but now I cast care to the four winds. After the horrors of the city, the perils of the night and the lonesome road seemed small and trifling; for a few hours, at least, she was mine, she rode at my side, so close that I could have laid my hand upon her shoulder, and once or twice I thought she looked toward me. A fool’s paradise, I knew, for she was going to her father, or her father’s friends, and I was a gentleman and could not—and would not—force my claim upon her, if she loved me not. Yet I was happy, and once, for some pretext—guiding her horse, I think—I touched her hand and felt the soft, slender fingers, no longer cold, but warm and firm. At least, she feared me not, and if she trusted me!—but this was a perilous line of reflection.

Three leagues, and we had scarce exchanged three words; certainly, the signs were not propitious, yet, looking at that dark outline beside me, I found nothing to say; I was as tongue-tied as a lad before his first love. Then, making up my mind to break the ice, to speak and make her speak, I blundered.

“I must tell you, madame, that Prince Galitsyn did not know of your——”

I was going to say “marriage,” when she interrupted me.

“If you have nothing better to say, sir,” she cried impatiently, “I pray you say nothing!”

I gasped, taken aback by her sharpness, and felt myself a fool, and yet I had made her speak. But if she felt so deeply for Galitsyn, was I not a fool for my pains? A curse upon these princes! It was the same in France; let a fop with a drop of royal blood in him make love to a woman, and away with the plain gentleman, and even with the marquis!

I bit my lip and relapsed into sullen silence, and our horses plodded steadily on; I had spared their speed purposely, in case we should have need of it before we gained the monastery. Again the silence of the brooding night gathered us under its shadowy wings and enfolded us softly, so softly that I thought I heard her even breathing, and once there was a sharp, shuddering sigh. She did not share my joy at escape, then, or my presence chilled it. Resolutely silent now, I kept my gaze averted and saw presently the flicker of a light to the left, a few yards ahead. I peered at it, trying to make out whether it was advancing, or burned before some wayside shrine, and I saw that it was stationary. I was for turning out to avoid it, suspicious of unknown dangers, when I became suddenly aware that the figure beside me was drooping in the saddle, and I heard a soft, suppressed sound—a woman’s weeping. I started and drew rein; was it possible that this imperious creature wept? I could not be mistaken, for I heard a smothered sob, and she reeled forward, clinging to her saddle-bow. I bent over and caught hold of her bridle.

“I pray you, madame, not to give way,” I said gravely, “even if my presence does offend you. I——”

“You mistake, monsieur,” she cried tremulously; “I cannot go on—’tis sheer weakness. I have not slept and I have not eaten—since the bread you gave me yesternight.”

“Saint Denis!” I exclaimed sharply; “did they try to starve you, my——”

I bit my tongue to stay an endearing word.

“They gave me nothing,” she replied; “nor did I greatly care, but now my head swims, I cannot keep in the saddle—I should have told you!”

I did not know what to do, and looked again at that stationary light, which seemed now to burn brighter.

“Do you know what that is?” I asked her. “Is there a house near where I can get you food?”

She turned her head and looked in the direction I indicated.

“Yes,” she said listlessly. “I meant to tell you; it is a hut, and I know the old peasants who live in it; they will have rice bread and I will try to eat it. I am sorry,” she added, “I am very sorry to hinder you, monsieur, for my weakness.”

My heart smote me; had I not both eaten and slept, and I was a strong man and she, delicate and bred in luxury, had endured so much without complaint and ridden until she reeled in the saddle.

“If I can have a bit of bread and a cup of water, I can go on,” she said faintly. “I must go on!”

“Yes,” I replied, “when you have rested and broken your fast. Fear not, madame, they do not pursue us; and if you are certain of this house we will go forward.”

“I am certain,” she said.

I kept her horse’s bridle and led the beast beside mine, as we advanced some twenty yards, and then, not daring to take her to the house without first reconnoitering, I dismounted, and, with some misgivings lest her strength should altogether fail, I hurried forward. I came first upon a shrine, where a little lamp burned feebly, fed, no doubt, by the occupant of the khatka or hut that I now plainly discerned standing a little way from the road. I approached it swiftly, but cautiously, and examined it with care. It was one of the little mud houses, thatched with straw, commonly used by the moujiks, and through the unglazed window I saw an old woman cooking something over a fire of fagots, while in another corner a man, quite as old and more feeble, slept in his chair. The hut contained but one room, and only these two persons were in it. Reassured, I went back for the princess, confident that she would make her way with these people more quickly than I, for when the Russ became a patois I could not clearly understand it. I led our horses to the door of this humble dwelling and was about to knock when the old woman herself came to peep out at us, aroused by the tread of the animals. She opened the door cautiously, and only peered through the crack with an evident absence of hospitality.

“I will go to her,” Daria said quietly; “I know her—and I will speak with her.”

I helped her to dismount and would have supported her, but she slipped away from me and went to the door.

“’Tis I, Mother Vera,” she said gently; “I, Daria Kirilovna, and I pray you let me in to rest and give me bread—for I am hungry. The great city yonder, our holy mother, Moscow, is torn with riot and murder and robbery; the Streltsi have risen, and I have barely escaped with my life.”

As soon as she spoke the old woman opened the door and fell on her knees, kissing Daria’s hand and pressing it to her forehead, and when the princess ceased speaking, she rose and beckoned to her to enter.

“Now is my house honoured, O dear lady,” she said, in a thin old voice; “now is my roof lighted as with daylight, by the eyes of Daria Kirilovna. Enter, O my princess, all that is there is thine.”

She spoke with a strong accent of the north country, but more clearly than I had expected, and she showed every evidence of joy at the sight of Daria.

I watched her usher in the princess, and then I took the precaution of leading the horses to the rear of the cabin, and tethering them where they were least likely to be observed from the highroad. Having seen to their comfort and security, I returned to the hut and was admitted by the old woman, who courtesied profoundly, and called me “excellency.” I found that she had spread a simple meal before the princess of rice bread and milk, and though the place was bare and poor in aspect, and the food coarse, it was clean, no common thing in the house of a moujik. In the corner the old man nodded, only stirring at my entrance, to murmur something about the oil for the lamp at the shrine, and then falling asleep again. His wife, seeing my glance at him, touched her forehead significantly, and shook her head.

“He’s not all here any more, your excellency,” she said, casting a melancholy glance at her ancient spouse, “and his arm is weak, too; he is not even able to beat me,” and she wiped her eyes at the thought.

The princess, who had laid aside her hood, looked up at me shyly, and coloured deeply, signing to me to sit down at the table, which was only a board laid upon two trestles.

“You also must be hungry,” she said, in a very low voice.

And I, for the sake of eating with her, sat down and broke some of the old wife’s rice bread, all the while watching the soft colour come and go in Daria’s cheek, and the persistent droop of her eyelashes. The old woman waited upon us humbly, but with an air that made me think she had once been a servant in a great house, which I found to be true, for she told me afterwards that she had been in the household of Prince Voronin before her marriage.

Although she had fasted long, the princess seemed to me to eat but little, and that listlessly, as the very weary often do. But as soon as she had finished she told me that she was ready to ride on; however, I had no thought of taking her farther without, at least, an hour’s rest, and told her so. She protested weakly, at first, and then, meeting my eyes, fell silent and sat with her head drooping and her hands clasped in her lap. There was a wooden settle in the corner, and I took my cloak and, folding it over the high back, made a soft place for her to rest against.

“Now, madame,” I said, assuming the tone of command, “you will rest there an hour, so that we may ride on to Troïtsa.”

She hesitated, glancing at my cloak and turning her face aside.

“I can rest here,” she said, I thought sullenly.

“Upon a stool that has no back?” I asked ironically. “You would rest better in the saddle. Nay, madame, you make the task of rescuing you no light one. I pray you, do as I ask.”

She bit her lip and kept her eyes averted, but she rose slowly and walked over to the settle. The old woman, being heartily of my opinion, also urged her to rest, and made much ado in arranging her upon my cloak, while Daria turned her face away and sat bolt upright, as if she feared contagion from it. I smiled grimly, and bided my time; I knew her strength was almost exhausted, and the sequel justified my expectations. I fell to talking with the crone and, in half an hour, I saw the princess sink gently back upon the settle, and then the proud head drooped upon the folds of my cloak and she slept, gently and soundly as a child, utterly worn out by the strain of the last two days and nights.

Meanwhile the old woman chatted garrulously, of her past, of her children,—all long dead, though there had been fifteen,—of her husband, of their life in the hut. And she had many questions to ask me; she had heard a rumour of the revolution in Moscow, and scarcely believed it, and was, indeed, too dull to fully comprehend my answers. She told me also of Prince Voronin’s household; he had been twice married already, she said, and would soon wed again. Daria’s mother had been shaved, a convenient way to be rid of a wife; for when a Russian wanted a divorce he sent his wife to a convent, and as soon as her head was shaved she was forced to remain there. However, death had released Daria’s mother, and the prince’s second wife was now shaved, so he would soon wed again.

All this time Daria slept, and I watched the shadows play on her downcast face and long black lashes. She looked very young and delicate as she sat there, and helpless and appealing; the princess had vanished and the young girl predominated, and she was very lovely. I watched her with many thoughts, and with an ever-growing affection, and the old woman, tired at last, fell asleep, too, and snored, and the hours went on, and still I had not the heart to rouse the princess. Once in the night the old man woke and hobbled out to replenish the oil in the lamp before the shrine, a thing he seemed to do mechanically, for he hobbled back, stared at me vacantly, and then fell asleep again.

I kept the vigil, tending the fire, that we might not be left in darkness, and the night passed thus. Daria never stirred; she slept the deep sleep of exhaustion, and I watched and thought of her, of all that she had said and done, and saw nothing—in a word or action—but indifference, save that one cry when I came to her cell door, “Is it thou?” and it pleased me to think of the thrill in her voice, as it pleased me to look at her beautiful face in its slumber, at the graceful droop of her young figure, which was slender and virginal in aspect. Yet, all the while, there was an undercurrent of anxiety; time was precious, and I listened, ever and anon, for a hoof-beat on the road, and once I thought someone walked near the hut.

At last the night wore to a close; I heard a cock crow in the little yard without, and knew that morning was at hand. I flung a new fagot on the fire, and as it crackled and blazed up, illuminating the dreary room, the princess awoke. There was a moment of surprise, of suspended recollection, and then she sprang up.

“Oh, monsieur,” she cried softly, “have I slept long? Why did you permit it?”

I smiled, rising too, and laying some money gently in the lap of the sleeping crone.

“Come,” I whispered, “let us go—if they know not whither, it will be best, if they are questioned.”

“I would thank them though,” she said regretfully, and then unclasping her bracelet, she laid it beside my coins, and followed me on tip-toe to the door.

XXIX: A DUEL WITH SWORDS

THERE is nothing in the world more beautiful than the dawn—the birth of a new day—the resurrection of the light. Darkness rolling away like a vapour, lying low on the earth, dropping away into its valleys; above, the firmament is radiant, an arch of glory, of tender colour, of soft white clouds, transcendently lovely, and the very air is sweeter, fresher, full of musical sounds—life stirring gently out of silence and sleep.

As the Princess Daria and I rode from the hut by the wayside, such a dawn was breaking; the sky was faintly luminous, the earth dark and level, and we could see, across the wide sweep of the plain, the river of light begin to flow, wider and wider, between earth and sky, rippling and radiating, as it spread, until the shadows fled away from the face of the steppe and we saw the ground green and fragrant and in the distance a herd of cattle grazing, for it was spring and there was pasturage. It was still and peaceful and lonely, as a vast plain is ever lonely.

The horses had rested too, and were fresh, travelling briskly along the highroad; not a habitation was in sight before us, no sign of man, but here and there, a shrine; for the Russian loves to pray, and his saint is ever close at hand.

The princess, repentant for the loss of time, was in a softer mood, and rode beside me quietly. She had not muffled her face, and the air brought a freshness to her aspect. I noticed, too, again that she rode like a Frenchwoman, and not as the Russians commonly did, astride like men.

“You ride like my countrywomen, madame,” I said, “and you speak French well.”

She could not hear “madame” from my lips without changing countenance, and she blushed divinely now.

“My mother was a Pole, monsieur,” she replied simply, “and hers a Frenchwoman; I am not all Russian.”

“Ah,” I said softly; “I thought there was a tie of sympathy between us. After all—you are a little French.”

She cast a shy look at me, from under her long lashes, and would not answer me. A conversation in one voice goes but lamely, as I found, yet something in her manner elated me. A long pause ensued, and I fell to wondering in what light she regarded me—as her husband or her groom?

Of one thing, however, I felt certain; she no longer feared me; indeed, I thought she began to trust me; but as Maître le Bastien quoted the proverb, “Souvent femme varie,” and I was to find it so.

There were few trees in the landscape, but some twenty or thirty paces ahead of us, in an elbow of the road, was a clump of sycamores, and behind the land dropped into a hollow, where water lay in a reedy pool and some cattle stood there, knee-deep, drinking. Away off, beyond the plain, the river of light was a molten sea of gold, where the sun was rising before us, for we rode northeast from Moscow.

“Madame, do you know of what this scene reminds me?” I asked her quietly.

We had been so long silent that she started at the sound of my voice—flushing as she always did.

“Nay, monsieur, I know not,” she replied.

I pointed at the steppe, and at the far east, where the sun shone in a narrow rim above the world, like the broken half of a lover’s gold piece.

“Of my life, madame, level and barren as this, until the sun rose on it,” I said softly, “the sun of my love for you.”

She met my eyes fully for an instant, a look of wonder in hers, and then she turned her face proudly away, but I saw her hands tremble.

“Believe me,” I continued gently, “I would not have forced myself upon you, save to keep you from a fate you hated.”

She dropped the horse’s bridle on his neck, and covered her face with her hands.

“Do not speak of it!” she cried passionately; “do you think I am less than other women? that I do not feel it? That cruel czarevna! How dared you, sir?”

I bit my lip; to her I was the goldsmith’s apprentice. So be it, I thought; if she despised the man, she may also despise the marquis. I had meant to tell her, but now I would not.

“Are Russian men then cowards, madame?” I asked drily.

She did not reply; she had no time, for we had come to the clump of trees, and as we turned them, a horseman suddenly barred our way with a drawn sword. She recognised him first, with a little cry of horror, and then I, too, looked into the flushed face of the Boyar Kurakin. My first impulse was to draw my pistol and shoot him down, and then I saw that the man had no weapon but his sword, and was alone. He looked at her, more than at me, and I knew then how near akin such love as his is to hatred.

“Well met!” he cried savagely; “well met, Daria Kirilovna; you ride early with your lover, but you ride no further—by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk!”

He meant to say more, and to insult her, but I forced my horse between and he found my sword-point at his throat.

“Back, monsieur,” I said pleasantly, and smiled; “back, or you will drink blood for your breakfast!”

But he was no coward, and rode like a Cossack.

“To the devil with you, you French smith!” he cried contemptuously, and our swords crossed, the sparks flying as the steel ground. His horse, a fiery beast, plunged and I missed giving him a thrust over his guard, as I had given M. d’Argenson, on the Place Royale. Then he wheeled quickly, and tried to stab me in the side, and I parried, my beast answering the bit well, but I saw I had my match, not trained in a Parisian school, but a born swordsmen, as I think some men are. Moreover, the thought of his humiliation in the painted gallery, of his stolen bride, stung him to fury: he would have torn me to pieces with the joy of a savage. We fought desperately, therefore, and the horses, plunging and backing, kept us whirling in a circle, thrusting here and missing there, and then clashing fiercely; once he drew blood on my arm and once I touched his throat.

The Princess Daria’s horse had carried her a few yards away, and there she held him, looking back, rooted, as it seemed, to the spot, though I shouted to her to ride on. The swords whirled and ground together, and in a flash I saw the whole scene and remembered it; the glory of the sky, the wide sweep of land, the shadows of the sycamores, and the sharp outline of her figure and her face, white as a pearl. But, all the while, I had much ado to keep his steel from my heart, and verily, I think the man fought more like a fiend than a human. The sun had risen and sometimes it shone in my eyes, sometimes in his, as our beasts moved to and fro, and sometimes the flash and sparkle of it on our blades was blinding and once—when he almost thrust me in the breast—I heard the princess cry out sharply.

Then I rose in my stirrups and he in his, and for a moment our steels ground out fire. I saw his bloodshot eyes and heard his laboured breathing; the man was tired and so was I, and yet I must wear him out or give her up to him, and he—the barbarian devil—he knew that he must kill me or give her up to me!

I had the longer sword, and once I thought I had him, but he parried and well-nigh caught me under the arm-pit, and then I wheeled my horse quickly and lunged at him, our swords clashed, and at the sound, his beast plunged widely from me, reared up and pawed the air, while I saw Kurakin’s face turn pale as ashes, and then the beast fell over backward and rolled on his rider. My own horse careered wildly, and the other brute turned over and got to his feet and was running with an empty saddle, before I could approach his master. Kurakin lay in a heap on the ground, and I leaped down and turned him over; his neck was broken and he lay there, in the mire, stone-dead.

I turned and saw the princess holding in her horse, for he, too, was restive, and her face was perfectly colourless.

Without a word I mounted and rode forward, and she sat looking back with dilated eyes.

“Will you leave him so?” she cried; “is he dead?”

“Quite dead, madame,” I answered.

She made the sign of the cross, and I laid my hand upon her bridle, guiding her frightened horse.

“We must ride,” I said. “We can send others back from Troïtsa for the body—if it is safe to do so.”

For ten minutes we galloped on and then she spoke.

“Why did you not use your pistol?” she asked.

“In France a gentleman takes no advantage of his adversary in weapons,” I replied courteously.

She bit her lip, and then, “But if he had killed you!” she cried.

Then I had my revenge. “Then, madame, instead of the goldsmith you would have had a boyar,” I said coldly.

She looked at me a moment in sheer amazement, and then she turned crimson, and rode on ahead of me without a word.

XXX: THE PRINCE VORONIN

IN this fashion, riding hard, we came in sight of Troïtsa. In the clear sunshine the cupolas and turrets of the beautiful building rose clearly outlined against the sky. The great monastery, with its chapels and its shrines and its glebe, was a princely territory, and close under the protection of its walls clung a village, grown there, doubtless, through the constant stream of pilgrims, whose wants could not be altogether satisfied at the refectory. Herds of cattle moved placidly along the slopes to the south, the herds of the brotherhood, for there was wealth there and power. From among these monks were chosen the great dignitaries of the church, for the priests, compelled to marry and to work in the parishes, could never receive high offices, and a bitter jealousy raged between the two orders. The sunshine on the golden crosses, and the white walls, and over the green slopes, the peaceful atmosphere, the sweet chimes of the church bells, greeted us and made the scene on the road seem like a nightmare. We slackened our pace and went more slowly up the road which led to the gates, and as we approached, I observed a cortège leaving them and coming toward us. Such a cortège as I had seen commonly in Moscow, the serfs running ahead of an open carriage drawn by three horses, the marten-tails floating in the breeze, and in the vehicle a noble in his rich and gaudy dress, and behind again, the serfs, bare-foot, but sparkling in broad collars and belts of gold on their white caftans. As they appeared the princess drew rein with a sharp exclamation, and I looked around at her, divining the cause of her discomfiture.

“My father!” she gasped, and looked at me strangely.

“Yes, madame,” I said, smiling grimly, “his excellency, the prince; have I not redeemed my pledge?”

“But,” she began, and stammered, “but my father—I must tell him—and you—what can you do?”

My face burned.

“Madame,” I said coldly, “do you think I am afraid to tell your father that I married you?”

It was her turn to blush, and her eyes shone strangely.

“You do not know him,” she replied simply. “He will not listen. I know the customs of your country are different; here, sir, a girl is given in marriage by her parents, as they will. Sometimes she never sees her bridegroom’s face until the hour of the ceremony. My father——” She stopped, bit her lip, and sat looking down at her horse’s ears, and the animal, with his bridle hanging loose, put his head down and cropped the grass.

“And your father intended you to marry Prince Galitsyn,” I suggested coldly, and then—because the pain in my heart was sharp—I added; “and you, madame; do you love him?”

Then I thought a smile quivered about her lips, her head drooped prettily, she would not look up, and the prince’s carriage came swiftly on.

“Do I love him?” she repeated innocently; “who, sir—my father?”

“No, no!” I cried, in fierce haste, my heart beating wildly, “your lover.”

Then she cast a bewildering glance at me. “Which?” she asked, and this time I saw a dimple come and go in her cheek.

I urged my horse closer, and had my hand on her bridle when the prince’s runners came panting up to us, and the three horses were halted before us. He had recognised his daughter and beckoned to her. Every vestige of colour and of life faded out of her face, a moment before rosy and inscrutable, and she would have obeyed, but I rode forward instead, and halting beside his excellency’s carriage, I uncovered and greeted him with the courtesy I would show my equals in France. I told him that I had brought his daughter to him, and he eyed me coldly from head to foot. He was a handsome, dignified man, with white hair and a ruddy skin and clear blue eyes. Nothing, however, could exceed his hauteur; he could have matched the Grand Monarque himself in manner, and, in his own domain, he was as great an autocrat. His whole glance at me said, more plainly than words, “and who are you?” but he acknowledged my information with a stately gesture, at once dignified and courteous. Then he spoke a word in Russ to the slave at his feet, who rose and, opening a long bag, or pouch, began to gather up a handful of roubles, I looking on in some amazement while the slave counted them. Then Voronin spoke again, and this time audibly.

“Nay, twenty roubles more, Vasali,” he said; “would you stint the pay of a man who rescued my daughter?”

Saint Denis! did he take me for a lackey? My wrath well-nigh choked me.

“You mistake, M. le Prince,” I said, in a low voice, that the serfs in attendance might not hear; “I have brought back your daughter—as my wife!”

The slave at his feet, who heard me, dropped the bag of gold and fell on his knees gaping, while the prince merely stared at me, as if he thought me mad. Very briefly, therefore, I told him the story of Sophia and the painted gallery and the marriage, and as I did so, the Princess Daria rode up and drew rein beside me. Many emotions had played across the prince’s strong face as I spoke, but at the end it was inscrutable. He turned his stern eyes on his daughter.

“Is this true?” he asked, in a deep voice.

“It is true,” she replied, very low, “and he saved my life!”

I held up my hand. “Nay,” I said, “there is no virtue in that plea; I do not make it. I am your husband, madame!”

She gave me a strange look.

The prince turned to her again. “You have ever spoken the truth,” he said, in a hard voice. “I acquit you of fault in this; but has he guarded you, and treated you as becomes a princess, and my daughter?” His tone was terrible.

“I have been safe as with you, my father,” she replied, and her voice broke a little.

The prince called a serf. “Take the horse of the princess and lead her ahead of me back to Troïtsa,” he said, and then to me: “Sir, if she had testified against you, I would have had you hanged!”

“M. le Prince,” I replied coldly, “I am a Frenchman and a man of honour. Try me not too far, monsieur; even though you are her father, there are some things you may not say to me. Neither can you compel her to leave her husband—unless she wills it.”

He looked at me with disdain and laughed.

“Her husband!” he repeated. “As little her husband, Sir Frenchman, as that moujik in the field yonder,” and he signalled to his serfs to turn back to Troïtsa.

But I rode beside the carriage and looked into his face, and proud as he was, I saw him colour darkly.

“M. le Prince,” I said, “I am not the man to be thus lightly dealt with. If she wishes to be free—I will free her. No woman is my wife against her will; but if she chooses me of her free will, mine she is, and shall be, against the world.”

“And think you that the Princess Daria will choose you?” he asked contemptuously.

I returned his glance with equal pride. “And why not, monsieur?” I said quietly. “I am her husband.”

He laughed at that, as I have seen men laugh before they engage a deadly enemy.

“There are such things as divorces,” he said suavely, “and other—ways of removal.”

“Assassination, M. le Prince,” I suggested. “It has been tried. In France I am accounted wise enough to save my head.”

“It is well, sir,” he said; “I would advise you to use that wisdom now.” He pointed southward. “The road to Moscow lies there,” he added courteously, “and fifty roubles for your expenses—as a profit for the rescue of the princess.”

“You insult me, sir,” I said scornfully; “yonder is my wife, and yonder will I go,” and I rode forward, in defiance, to her side.

All this while we had been progressing slowly on the road to Troïtsa, and as I went forward the whole procession quickened its pace. As my horse came alongside of hers, the princess turned a pale face toward me.

“Monsieur, I pray you be advised,” she said, very low, “and anger him not. He seems a smooth man and courteous, but he has a violent spirit, and look you—you are one against all these, his slaves. ’Tis useless—’tis worse than useless!”

“And you?” I said, “and you—obey him through fear?”

Her lips quivered, she averted her eyes.

“Half an hour ago, you were not thus,” I murmured, “tell me if——”

She looked up and her eyes were full of pain.

“Hush!” she cried, “hush! I will not listen. Yonder is the gate—and I go to my cousin—I will obey my father, I——”

“Do you—will you repudiate your husband?” I asked firmly.

Her hands shook; she gave me an imploring look. “If you love me, monsieur,” she faltered, “I beseech you—retire now and leave us. To-morrow you can speak to him—the mad mood will pass if you——”

I leaned over and touched her hand.

“For your sake,” I said, and drew aside and let the cortège pass me and enter the domain of Troïtsa.

And yet, twelve hours later, I counted this act of gallantry as one of arrant folly, but who can lift the veil of destiny unless it be the astrologer?

XXXI: VASSALISSA

WHEN the Princess Daria rode out of my sight that day she vanished so completely that I could neither see her nor communicate with her again. Prince Voronin understood the art of concealing his women-folk even more thoroughly than the other Muscovites, and he was determined to disregard the marriage of his daughter with a foreigner. He told me so himself, standing on the great steps of the monastery, with old Piotr bearing his sword behind him, and two slaves preceding him with torches. For it was that same night that I met him face to face on the steps, and demanded an interview in which the matter of my marriage should be fully discussed. The man was naturally above the average in height and bore himself with a dignity that was at once fine and disdainful. I thought him then—with the torchlight upon him, in his magnificent dress of dark green and crimson, with his snow-white hair and his falcon eye—one of the handsomest and the proudest men that I had ever seen, and I saw too, that—finding that he could neither buy me nor intimidate me—he hated me cordially, yet he was a smooth man and rarely violent in speech.

I had told him very briefly, but circumstantially, the story of the marriage, and he knew as well as I that it was legal, but not the quiver of an eyelash betrayed the least emotion.

“It rests with the Princess Daria,” I said; “she is my wife—and she must choose. If she is still unwilling—I will not force my claim upon her; but if she respects the bond between us, there is no power on earth that can take her from me.”

The prince was so far unmoved that he smiled.

“In Russia it is the father, and not the daughter, who chooses, sir,” he said coolly, “and so little does her will rule it that I tell you plainly that, if I chose, I would give her to a moujik to-morrow—and she should not disobey me.”

“She is your daughter,” I replied steadily, “but she is also my wife, and you will not separate us, Prince Voronin. I demand to see her—there is no law, in any land, that can keep a husband from seeing his own wife.”

He eyed me coolly, but I saw the throbbing at the temples that comes in anger, and the torchlight falling full on his face stained it with crimson.

“There is no law, sir,” he replied suavely, “but there is my will.”

“Do you intend to prevent an interview?” I demanded sternly; “to take a wife from her husband by force?”

“My dear sir,” he said pleasantly, “I would as lief fling you in the Moskva, as not. Think you that I intend to permit Sophia Alexeievna to marry my daughter at her will—to whom she will? Pshaw, sir, you are a meddlesome foreigner! If Kurakin had married her, I would have flung him from the top of Ivan Veliki; there was no need of your interference to save the daughter of Prince Voronin.”

Looking in his eye, no one could doubt that he would be as good as his word, but my blood was up, and but for the absolute folly of such a course, on the steps of the monastery, I would have engaged him then and there, and forgotten that he was my father-in-law, but as it was I kept my hand off my sword, lest I should yield to temptation, for my fingers itched to draw it.

“You are pleased to threaten me, monsieur,” I said coolly, “but you mistake your opponent. I care naught for your threats or your power. I have married the Princess Daria, and, by Saint Denis, she alone can choose! I will give her up to none, and I will see her, monsieur, if you and fifty of your slaves bar the way with drawn swords. Au revoir, M. le Prince, I will delay you no longer; we understand each other, as I think.”

He smiled fiercely, fingering his dagger.

“We do, sir, and we will,” he said, and bowed formally in reply to my grave salute.

Then he went down, the torches streaming fire before him, and the great figure of Piotr walking solemnly behind, and I stood on the steps, gnawing my lips with suppressed fury, and watching them proceed to a small chapel where they were singing mass.

After that I set about finding the princess. Somewhere, under the wing of these cloisters, the high-born women were sheltered, but where? I knew not, and again and again regretted my stupidity in not bringing Maluta. Either the prince had corrupted the people of the monastery with bribes, or they were reticent to foreigners, for, though I spent the greater part of the night in making inquiries and offering money, I heard nothing, and morning found me as ignorant as ever of Daria’s fate. That she was still there, I could not doubt; the place was full of fugitives from Moscow as well as the usual army of pilgrims, and the country was not in a state for travellers unless in large parties, and the prince’s serfs were still in force at Troïtsa, for I saw his liveries everywhere. Morning found me watching the processions of the devout, going from shrine to shrine with many genuflexions and prostrations, the sinner and the unabsolved penitent kneeling in the porticos. Among these numerous worshippers were many women, and I searched each group eagerly for one figure and searched in vain, and once or twice I thought I was followed, which would not have surprised me, knowing Voronin’s bitter enmity. Yet I could not be certain, though once I came upon two men who were watching me, by the corner of the chapel. Two burly fellows, wearing the dress of well-to-do merchants, but looking the part of ruffians to the life, and one had a deep purple mark upon his forehead that seemed to me familiar. But it was just after this chance encounter that something occurred that put the pair entirely out of my mind. I had left their neighbourhood and was walking in a quiet angle of the great cloister, listening to the sweet chime of the bells, when I heard my name called softly, and wheeling about, saw a veiled female figure standing in the shadow of the wall. For one wild moment I thought it the princess, and then I saw that the figure was shorter and rounder, and even before she partly lifted her fata I recognised Vassalissa, and blessed my good fortune. I was so overjoyed to see her that I could have embraced her, but she was poised lightly as a bird, ready to fly and in breathless haste.

“Hush—yes, monsieur, it is I,” she whispered, laughing, and retreating a little at my eagerness; “I am away from the dragon—but, in an instant, I must go back—she is at the chapel—no, no, not Daria!” She laughed at my excitement. “Only old Yekaterina.”

“But where is the Princess Daria?” I demanded; “has she hidden herself from me—or is it the prince’s doing?”

“A little of both, monsieur,” replied the girl roguishly; “she is afraid of you, I believe; you know husbands so often beat their wives and——”

“Sapristi!” I exclaimed; “do you imagine—does she dream that I would strike a woman?”

Lissa’s blue eyes opened wide. “Would you not?” she asked blankly. “Do not your men beat their wives?”

“The saints forbid!” I said piously. “A French gentleman beat his wife? Nay, mademoiselle, never!”

She looked at me with curiosity, and then clapped her hands gleefully.

“Look you, monsieur, I will marry a Frenchman!” she cried. “Why, my uncle beat his wife six times a week—and thought it too little.”

I bit my lip. “Perhaps, he also beats his daughter,” I said furiously.

“He used to,” Vassalissa replied, and turned pale. “He is a dreadful man, monsieur, when he is angry, but you know we women must obey.”

I choked down my anger. “Tell me no more,” I said harshly, “or I may kill him—even if he is her father. But where is she? I must see my wife!”

A roguish look came back into the child’s face.

“She is safe, monsieur,” she said, “and she may see you, if we can manage it without his knowledge, but if he catches us,” she nodded her head at me like a little bird, “he will kill us all—everyone!”

“I will risk it,” I said joyfully; “but where and when?”

She looked at me with her head on one side, as mischievous a little vixen as ever lived.

“I will tell you next week,” she said wickedly.

I caught her round young arm and held her, in spite of her struggles.

“When, child, when?” I demanded savagely; “do not trifle!”

“To-morrow,” she drawled mischievously, “I will tell you.”

I gave her a little shake. “When?” I said, “and where? ’Tis no jest, mademoiselle, but life and death!”

She looked up at me with wondering blue eyes.

“Do you really love her so?” she whispered.

“Better than life,” I answered solemnly.

She sighed deeply and smiled. “I think she——” The minx broke off, looking at me sideways.

“Does she?” I cried in a fever, “does she love me?”

She slipped out of my hands and danced off, laughing gleefully.

“I do not know,” she cried, “she is a princess, sir, and no one knows her mind.”

I could have shaken the provoking little witch.

“Ah, perhaps she loves Prince Galitsyn,” I suggested coldly; “he had her miniature.”

The girl’s face sobered. “I gave it to him,” she said, “to plague Daria; she did not mean to do it. We changed the pictures to tease Sophia, and I gave it to Galitsyn; I was wrong, for all this ill came of it, but”—she stopped and rubbed her shoulder comically—“I got a beating for it!” she said, pouting.

“But when can I see her?” I cried passionately. “I will follow you and find her.”

“No, no,” she retorted, like a flash, “you would not find her, but old Yekaterina,” and she laughed like a chime of bells.

Then she listened and held up her finger.

“She calls and I must go,” she said, “and Daria will see you here, monsieur, to-night—at sundown—if all goes well—adieu,” and she fled from me, perhaps three yards, and then:

“Surely, I shall marry a Frenchman,” she cried to me, her blue eyes shining; “they do not beat their wives,” and away she ran.

Strangely elated—not only by the thought that the princess had made an appointment with me, but by her cousin’s manner, which seemed to imply Daria’s friendliness also—I walked toward the straggling village, where I could see knots of pilgrims gathered in conversation, and here and there, on the road, one approached slowly, on his knees at every five paces, to utter a penitential prayer.

It was broad noonday; the beautiful domes and minarets of the monastery loomed against a sky as blue as turquoise; in the fields the moujiks had left their ploughing and knelt, facing the cloister, for the bells were ringing the call to prayers. A long line of bowed brown figures trailed slowly up the road to the gate, and the chant of a psalm came softly to me.

My heart was full of mingled emotions; the thought of her, of the cry of joy in her cell in the palace, of her manner just before we met her father, of a look I had surprised once when her eyes dwelt on me. All these things, that lovers dwell upon and hug to their bosoms, filled my mind and deafened my ears. I was far away from the pilgrims now and the houses; I had turned into a path that led across the fields and was walking slowly—the sunshine golden about me—when suddenly a stunning blow fell on the back of my head and there was thick blackness before my eyes, as I reeled and fell, face downwards, and knew no more.

XXXII: THE MAN WITH THE PURPLE SCAR

WHEN I came to myself my first thought was of the tryst: was it the hour to meet the Princess Daria? and then my mind trailed off into confused recollections; I was conscious of a sharp pain in my head and my nostrils were assailed by the ill-smelling smoke from a fire of dried dung and straw. Fuel not being over-plentiful on the wide steppes of Russia, the moujik commonly resorted to these unsavoury materials. I opened my eyes slowly, as we do after a heavy sleep or a swoon, and perceived that I was lying on the ground in a hovel. The door—too low for a man to stand in upright—was open, and the draught from it made the fire smoke, while two men were squatted at the threshold, throwing dice. I tried to turn over to gain a better view of these ruffians, but I found that I was bound, hand and foot, and, determined to learn something of my surroundings before they discovered my revival, I lay still, looking askance at them and little reassured by my observations. They were as pretty a pair of knaves as any man would care to see, and a closer inspection showed me the purple mark on the forehead of one, that I had seen on the man at Troïtsa, and now, at closer quarters, it seemed even more familiar. At last, I recognised him; it was my Streltsi of the Zemlianui-gorod, the dispenser of roubles, Martemian, son of Stenko. Was it possible that the rogue had pursued me even to Troïtsa, that this was the fruit of the steward’s revenge? I could not think so, but I did think that these ruffians were hired by the Prince Voronin to remove me, and why they had not killed me I could not divine, but reflected that they might think they had, and it behoved one to lie still and await developments. Meanwhile, however, the two rogues were deeply engaged in their game and helping themselves to frequent potations from a large jug that stood between them. As I watched from under my half-closed eyelids, one of them turned and looked at me, while he was holding the jug to his lips.

“Thou hast killed him, Martemian,” he said gruffly, “and thou hast exceeded thine orders—now the pay will be lost!”

Martemian cast a scowling glance at me.

“He’s not dead,” he said, in his deep bass; “think you I do not know a dead rat, when I see it? He’ll come about presently and start on his journey,” and he laughed harshly. “The Prince Galitsyn is a blockhead to show such squeamishness; the fellow is better dead than in Archangel.”

Prince Galitsyn! Ah! I strained my ears at that; not Voronin, but Galitsyn—yet it might be both.

“What’s he doing it for?” asked the first speaker thickly, his mouth full. “Is the fellow a Naryshkin?”

Martemian laughed. “What do you care?” he asked. “’Twill bring you your wages, and”—he shrugged his shoulders—“if he is over-troublesome, Mikhail, there are accidents that can happen on the road to the north.”

Mikhail laughed deeply and threw his dice, but after a moment he looked up shrewdly at the other man—his superior in rank and in intelligence.

“What do you get for it, comrade?” he asked sharply, “what d’ye get? There’ll be a fair division, or I’ll not go with you, not I.”

Martemian glared at him fiercely. “You rogue,” he said; “who saved your back from the lash a month since? You’ll get your pay and hold your tongue, or by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, I’ll hold it for you!”

The other villain cowered, and I scarcely blamed him; there was something terrible in the fierce face with the purple mark on the forehead. Yet, though cowed, Mikhail was not content; he would have said more, if I had not stirred—my bonds cutting my wrists—and Martemian’s quick ear caught the sound, and he rose and, striding up to me, bent down and scrutinised my face. He thought I knew no Russ.

“He’s well enough, Mikhail,” he said, stirring me with his foot; “bring the horses—we must travel.”

My blood boiled at his touch and I tried to rise, but could not, and he stood watching me grimly until I heard the horses come to the door. Then Mikhail was bidden to loose my bonds, and I rose with some difficulty, for my head swam. They had stripped me of my weapons and now they did not untie my wrists. Not yet determined on my line of action, I let them think I knew no Russ, hoping to hear more from them, and they resorted to signs, accented with flourishes of their pistols, to make me understand that I was to mount one of the three horses. It is no time to disobey when two pistols are held to your head, and I got on the horse and awaited developments. I thought that I could, at least, guide the horse with my knees, and if the opportunity offered, I could run for it. But opportunities were not to be plentiful. We started northward, in single file, Mikhail ahead of me and Martemian behind; both men armed and ready, as I knew, to shoot me down at the first sign of flight.

It was not until we were mounted that I became aware of my surroundings, and saw that we had been lying in a hut on the outskirts of the pilgrims’ village at Troïtsa. I could see the great dome of the monastery, and the light of the setting sun shone on the crosses. I gnawed my lip in silence; it was the hour that the Princess Daria would look for me. Ah, if my hands had but been free to fight them! Something of my wrath and disappointment must have showed on my face, for Martemian gave me a grim look and touched my horse on the flank.

“Get on with you!” he commanded harshly; “no loitering—forward, march!”

It was on the tip of my tongue to offer him a bribe, when it occurred to me that my money must have gone with my weapons, and as I rode between the two ruffians, I tried to feel, by raising my bound hands to my bosom, and to my surprise the bag was there and felt as weighty as ever. This perplexed me until a sudden thought solved the mystery. Martemian was master of the situation and Martemian intended to have all the gold. He had not searched further than my pockets with Mikhail, because he meant to keep the spoil, and later I found this surmise to be correct and it gave me a clew to a solution of my trouble, and set me to plotting and planning as we jogged along the long straight road, due north from Troïtsa. As we travelled I heard far off, and fainter and fainter, the sweet call of the bells to prayer—to prayer—but I never felt less like praying; I was in a perfect tempest of passion and baffled rage, the captive of two ruffians and as helpless as a clown—with my hands tied.

And yet it was May, and the breath of the northern spring was in the air. The afterglow softened the wide sweep of the steppe, shadows lay here and there, before us grew some trees. There was a sublimity in the solitude of the scene, wide stretching as the sky above us, and tipped at the western edge with crimson.

Before me rode Mikhail, and as he rode he sang a Slavic love song:

“‘Little did I, the young one, slumber at night,

Little did I slumber, but much did I see in sleep.

Just as if in the middle of our court-yard there grew a cypress-tree,

And another sugar-sweet tree;

And on the tree were golden boughs,

Golden boughs and boughs of silver,’”

sang the soldier, at the top of his trumpet voice:

“‘Golden boughs and boughs of silver.’”

Behind me came Martemian—pistol in hand—a grim, purple-scarred man, who had no mercy and no music in him. Between the two, I made my choice. If I could have killed them then—and I would have done it if I could—Martemian would have been the first.

We rode thus—passing, once or twice, a peasant pilgrim travelling slowly and patiently toward the shrine of Saint Sergius, a brown-skinned, lean moujik with a sheepskin caftan, and legs swathed in folds of cloth, and shoes of lime-tree bark; a man whose life was only labour and starvation and prayer. They came many, many leagues, on foot, to pray, and they went back, on foot, praying still. They looked at us with dull eyes, like dumb beasts, and passed with bowed heads. On we went riding swiftly, ever northward; on and on, and night fell and the stars shone overhead.

At last Martemian halted us, and getting me off my horse, coolly bound my ankles and tethered me to a stump. Then they built a fire of fagots, for we were on the edge of a little wood, and Mikhail cooked a meal of fish, and while he was thus engaged, Martemian, aided by the light of the fagots, came nearer to me and, taking a moment when the other’s back was turned, searched me, and I lay still waiting, determined, now, on my course. He found the bag of roubles and hid it quickly in his own breast and was back, sitting on the ground and feigning sleep when Mikhail brought the fish and bread. Liquor they had in plenty, but they offered me only a cup of water, from a stagnant pool beside us, and a piece of bread. Evidently my food was to be only sufficient to keep body and soul together, but I ate it and said nothing; as yet I knew no Russ, and I saw already a way to deal with this matter and watched the two—suspicious enough now of each other—with grim satisfaction. If I could not outwit two clownish rogues, surely I deserved my fate, and yet—all night I lay, tied to a tree as helpless as a log, and heard them snore beside me. And all the while I cursed my fate and thought of the Princess Daria. It was madness, too, to think of her. I had not kept the tryst; did she suspect the truth, or think me a poor craven frightened by her father? I writhed then in my bonds and plotted vengeance on Martemian; the other villain was but a slave and a dupe.

XXXIII: I SOW DISSENSION

IN the morning my two rogues had a very pretty quarrel over the breakfast, and the result was that I only got a morsel of dry black bread, while Martemian devoured all the meat and left bread and a little fish for Mikhail. The latter, purple with rage, choked furiously over his meal and eyed his superior so fiercely that more than once I entertained wild hopes. However, the trouble blew over and we mounted a little after sunrise, Martemian leading now, at least five yards ahead, and Mikhail, sulky and hungry, in the rear, while I rode between, and to-day they did not tie my hands; they knew full well that escape was impossible, while one or the other could shoot me down at leisure.

At first, we passed through a belt of firs, sparse and storm-beaten on the northern side, their trunks coated with grey lichens, and the shadows were black here, in contrast to the endless sunlight on those vast plains that surrounded us as we journeyed on. Plains where I could see a man so far off that he was but a speck, and where the hardy, shaggy-coated cattle grazed, travelling slowly southward in search of the fresh green upon the slopes. Though it was spring and the sun shone, it made me shudder to think of the snow on those steppes in winter, of the rolling, soft, shimmering, deadly whiteness, and the cold and the north wind.

As I rode, I studied the square outlines of Martemian’s figure; his short, thick neck, red and folded at the nape, like a bull’s; his brutal head, his wide shoulders and strong, muscular limbs gripping the horse tightly with the knees. Not an easy man to kill, I reflected, and as if my thoughts were carried to him by the current of the air, he turned sharply, and looked me between the eyes, and scowled, meeting my glance. Then he rode on, and once I saw him slyly peep at my bag of roubles; meanwhile, however, I heard Mikhail’s horse plodding steadily behind, but to-day he did not sing. It is a dangerous sign when a noisy knave falls silent; I have ever found it so. The villain who stabbed Henri Quatre did not sing, I warrant, or whistle either.

As the sun travelled upward in the heavens, we travelled upward too, and the road lay straight and white before us, but now some low bushes grew beside it, sprayed with green, and presently we rode through the main street of a little hamlet, where the log houses were sparsely planted about the chapel and the graveyard. And here the peasants came out to stare at us and Martemian bought bread and meat and liquor—with my money; and I saw the women swinging in public—a sport that the Russian women loved so much that a swing of boards was made in every village green, and a slave regularly appointed to swing the wives and daughters of the freedmen. And some of these were very pretty, as I saw, but all were painted on their faces, and their arms and hands, and they were so curious at the sight of a foreigner in “German clothes,” that they must needs run up to me and feel of my clothing, and many of them forgot to drop the fata over their faces, and looked up at me coquettishly, for which one stout woman was seized by a puny, jealous husband and well beaten as we rode away.

This journeying on and on in silence grew more and more oppressive, and the pain in my head, though less than yesterday, was bad enough; yet, as I looked from the brutal, dogged face of Martemian to the sulky, watchful face of Mikhail, I grew hopeful. If I could but speak to the duller rogue—but therein lay my difficulty, and the beasts travelled well. We passed verst-stone after verst-stone, and all the way I tried to remember and to mark the road, and yet had no means of even blazing a tree trunk or casting a stone by the wayside, and the plains seemed to stretch to the edge of the world. My plan—a desperate one—would miscarry too, without fresh horses, and, as the day wore on, I stirred uneasily in my saddle. It could scarcely be to-day, and—the Princess Daria? Ah, but that way lay madness!

It was past noon and we had not halted; the horses began to lag and hang their heads, and I saw Martemian shading his eyes with his hands, looking, as I knew, for water, and the rogue behind, who had fallen so silent all the forenoon, shouted to his leader.

“Will ye ride forever on an empty stomach, Martemian, son of Stenko?” he roared. “If you had meat, I had nothing but bread and a fishbone, and, by all Koshchei’s devils, I’ll have both meat and drink now!”

At the mention of Koshchei, a demon of the Russian forests, Martemian, the brutal and the fierce, crossed himself and looked behind him, for there is ever a leak-hole somewhere in a bully’s spiritual armour, and this brute feared devils and prostrated himself at every wayside shrine, red-handed though he might be, and branded seventy times seven with the mark of Cain.

“You’ll have meat and drink too,” he growled at Mikhail, “and may it choke you, if you summon devils here with your idle tongue. May the Baba Yaga get you! Yonder is a spring; we’ll bait the horses here and eat ourselves; there’s no hurry while Galitsyn pays,” and he laughed deeply, the purple mark showing sharply on his forehead.

They were an hour or more at their dinner, eating greedily, and they kept me between them that I might get no chance to run while they ate. I looked well at the horses, and, seeing that they were fagged, set my teeth to bide my time. So, after this, we rode again until nightfall, through vast plains, and at last skirted a forest—black and gaunt in its nakedness, not yet covered, but only tasselled here and there with green and red. At sunset Martemian halted us for the night and, after supping, and tying me, like an old horse, to a tree, they slept, but they left the fire of fagots burning, for we heard more than once, in the still darkness, that long, fierce, far-reaching yelp, the cry of the wolf,—Saint Yegory’s dog,—and the horses snorted, and tugged at their halters, shivering. I kept a vigil that night, the blackest—as I thought—of my life, and the angel that visited it had the face of Daria, but all the while I knew that she drifted from me, yet to-morrow, to-morrow,—I told myself!

My plans were ripe, and the hour, for the horses would be fresh, the woods a covert, and the goal—life and liberty. I watched the stars go and saw the paling of the sky, the white finger of morning running along the east, and, at last, daybreak. Martemian was ever the first to stir; if the man slept, I think it was with one eye only, for he always knew if I moved or struggled to be free, and he would rise, in the dead of night, and tighten the very cord that I had loosened, but to-day he played into my hands. He rose and went to the stream to drink, and Mikhail, who lay near me, awoke and sat up and rubbed his eyes, yawning until I thought the top of his head would surely split off the lower half.

“A curse on it!” he grumbled; “I’m stiff as a stake, and half fed and half paid, to boot. Curse the rogue, I’ll get more to-day or I’ll——” He caught my eye and stopped—staring at me.

“Curse me!” he said, “if I don’t believe you know Russ!”

“I do,” I replied calmly, in a low voice, “but keep your tongue still, if you would win. Look you,” I went on, “you have not ill-used me, I owe you a good turn. Yonder rogue, at the stream, took a bag of roubles from me—fifty roubles—and he has them at his belt.”

The knave’s eyes shot fire; his greedy, brutish face turned purple with anger. He never doubted my word, he knew Martemian too well.

“I have told you,” I said. “Will you loose me from this tree? I am stiff as you, and stiffer.”

He was not thinking of me, and cut my halter mechanically, watching Martemian all the while. He left my ankles bound, and thought that my hands were too, but in his anger he had been more careless than usual, and had cut a cord that left the noose loose on my wrists, but of this I gave no sign, though my heart leaped.

Martemian, meanwhile, had quenched his thirst, and now he was bathing his face; a process so unusual that it made patches of whiteness in the brunette tinge of his complexion.

Mikhail rose deliberately and untethered the horses, letting them stray for fresh provender, a custom of his at morning, then he walked slowly to the brook. I drew my hands cautiously out of the loosened cords and began to undo the bonds on my ankles.

Martemian ran his wet fingers through his long hair and beard. The morning air was sweet, and I saw him draw his breath deeply, and I watched the figure behind him—treading stealthily—draw a long sharp knife. One foot was free now, and I worked wildly at the other, yet—all the while—I watched the scene. The whiteness of the early morning lay far off on the plain, the stream sparkled, the black shadows hung behind us in the forest, the horses nibbled the short turf near me. One man stood still, the other crept, the long knife gleamed. Then Mikhail’s foot crushed a dried twig and Martemian wheeled and saw him. There was a scream of passion, a fierce answering roar, and the two clenched and fought, as demons might.

I sprang to my feet, and hunted the ground for a stick and found a stout one, then I caught the nearest horse and mounted.

They did not see me; they wrestled and writhed like two giants, the knife between them, death in their hearts. They rolled over on the ground and grappled, and Martemian was underneath.

I cut the other horses sharply with my stick and they reared, plunged forward, and ran before me like wild deer, and I—I rode for life, for liberty, for love!

The clatter of the horses’ feet roused the two ruffians; loosing each other, they rose from the dirt, shouting and running after me, but their horses ran before mine. I looked back and saw two tongues of flame, and a bullet clipped my ear while another grazed one of the horses on the flank, and faster and faster they fled, until the cries grew faint and far-distant, and died at last in silence. I looked back and saw only two little black dots on the crest of the slope, and, at last, nothing but the wide swell of the land.

And the wind blew from the south and the sun shone.

XXXIV: A BOYAR’S FUNERAL

I  KEPT the pace at a run, until I had left my pursuers far behind, and then I had much ado to secure one of their horses. One, frightened by the shots, outran us, and was disappearing southward, but the other had fallen from a gallop to a trot, and from a trot to an amble, and, at last, stopped to crop the fresh grass by the wayside, and I caught him, though with some difficulty; but I had two good reasons for desiring his company upon the road. First, I had no mind to leave him for the two varlets, who would doubtless follow on foot—if they did not kill each other; and secondly, I meant to sell him at the first village I reached, for I was penniless and without weapons, besides having been robbed of my cloak and the lace ruffles at my neck and sleeves, and even of the gold buttons on my waistcoat, for the two ruffians had been a pretty pair of thieves, and would doubtless, in the end, have stripped me to my shirt.

It was then that my habits of observation served me well. M. de Turenne used to say of me, that not even a rat ran into camp without my knowledge—and he gave me great credit for it, though, perhaps, I should not tell of it, but what will you? If a man praise not himself, who will? Not his enemies, and not his friends, for they are ever envious of too much eminence; ’tis the way of the world. But, as I said, my observation served me well; but for it, I should never have found my way on those wild plains, but a stump here, or a dip of the land there, showed me the path, and riding with as much speed as I thought prudent for my horse-flesh, I reached the village where the women-folk were still swinging, and here I sold the led horse and bought a long Russian saber and some food for myself and my beast, and went on again, not caring to trust to their hospitality or loyalty, for my reappearance with two horses led at once to suspicion, and to increase my difficulties, before I was done with my bargains, in trotted the other horse, who had evidently been grazing in the meadow by the town, and nothing but a speedy departure saved me from being carried before the starosta—the village magistrate.

That night I lay under the open sky again, and only long enough to rest myself and my horse, and was in the saddle before dawn. I had bought food enough to last, with frugality, until I reached Troïtsa, and I steadily avoided all hamlets or signs of human habitation, fearing more complications, and by dint of prudence and hard riding I saw, at last, the golden crosses of Troïtsa, and for very joy I could have fallen down and prayed, as the Russians do, on the Hill of Prostration, when they first see Moscow. Of my friends, Martemian and Mikhail, I had seen nothing, and I fancied that one of them had been killed over that bag of roubles, for which they cared far more than they did for me.

As I approached Troïtsa my thoughts—never far-distant from their loadstar—dwelt constantly on the Princess Daria. I thought to find her there; it would be impossible for Voronin to return yet to the city, and if they were still in Troïtsa, I could find her, and learn her will and her inclinations. Every word that she had said to me, every gesture, the swift lifting of her slender, long-fingered hands, the droop of her head, or its proud erectness, the slender virginal outlines of her figure; all these things dwelt in my recollection. I was bewitched, if ever man was, and yet—and yet, did she love Galitsyn? With these pretty torments to sting and goad me on, I rode boldly into the village at the gates of Troïtsa, and finding quarters for my horse, set out, at once, on foot to make inquiries.

It was a cloudy day and exceedingly dreary; even the splendour of that great monastery seemed subdued. There were more pilgrims, though, I thought; more men and women kneeling here and there in the road facing the sacred place.

But I was inattentive to these things; I knew nothing yet, and I must learn something of her, and at once. I felt like a traveller in a desert country, I was athirst for tidings. Presently I came to the road that led to the shrine of Saint Sergius, and here I saw that the ground was strewn with bits of fir and hemlock, as these people ever strew the way before a corpse, and I heard the slow weird chant rising as the procession approached me. I was caught, hemmed in by the peasants around me, who fell on their knees. Slowly down the wide path of hemlock boughs wound the black-robed figures, and slowly with long-drawn notes rose the chant.

First came the lanthorn-bearers, though it was in the forenoon, four tall men in long black gowns with wide-brimmed black hats, and each one bore a candle, burning in a lanthorn, and behind them came a man with his head uncovered, his long grey hair floating in the breeze and he bore a sacred picture clasped to his breast, and—lest his touch should defile it—fine white cambric covered the edges of the frame where he held it. Then followed two men bearing the coffin-lid, on which lay the long sword, the embroidered robe of state, the arms and insignia of a great noble and boyar, and with him walked two boys carrying crosses on velvet cushions. These walked slowly—as they all did—and behind them came the priests and deacons in robes of black velvet, edged with silver and covered with silver crosses, and the deacons carried aloft the tapers and the censers which filled the with the dead sweetness of incense, and they led the chant, slower—slower and more solemn—for after them followed the bier, borne by six tall men in the rich robes of noblemen, and beside them were the bearers of more tapers, burning in keen yellow points in the grey day. The bier itself was covered with a pall of silver brocade and on it, in a magnificent embroidered robe of scarlet and gold, his hands clasping a cross on his breast, his face uncovered, lay the embalmed corpse. And the face, though distorted by death, was still the face of Kurakin.

I started, and stood staring while the gorgeous bier was borne slowly past me. Face to face again with him—mine enemy! Slain, too, in a fight with me, though not directly by my hand. His face, exposed so cruelly in the daylight, and with the flare, too, of the yellow tapers on it, seemed to reproach me. I had as certainly been his evil genius as I had been that of M. d’Argenson, and yet I could not feel regret. I knew the man’s life had been evil, report said that he had beaten his first wife to death, and his ways had been violent and bloody. So much the worse too, for him, in this his sudden taking-off. I stood staring, like a fool, while the crowd of mourners followed, his friends and his serfs, all bare-headed, and the last bare-foot. Then, reflecting that these people, if they recognised me, might hold me to account, I turned to find my way out of the press of onlookers, and had not gone two steps before I saw a face that I welcomed with joy. Not ten yards distant stood the dwarf, Maluta, and, at the sight of me, he beamed with delight. I beckoned to him to follow, and in a few moments we were comparatively alone, and I halted to ask and answer questions. He had been in great distress at my disappearance, and must know the particulars, even while he replied to my inquiries. He had only reached Troïtsa the night before, and he bore messages and letters, as well as more of my money, sent by Maître le Bastien, and he described his search for me and his perplexity, and ended by saying that he had thought, up to a moment ago, that I had gone with Prince Voronin, or in pursuit of him.

“Prince Voronin!” I cried excitedly; “I left him here with his daughter and his niece—is he back in Moscow?”

Maluta shook his head vehemently. “No, O excellency,” he replied; “Moscow bubbles as the pot does when the sterlet stews. He could not go there; he has gone to his own domain.”

“And the Princess Daria?”

“Is with him also,” said the dwarf, “she and her cousin and the female slaves, and the new wife of the prince, and all his retinue.”

“Where is his home?” I demanded sharply, for I meant to follow the great lion even to his lair.

Maluta pointed southward.

“Away and away,” he said, “many versts beyond the great white city, south still, toward the Tchornosjorn[B] and beyond, where the prince keeps peace with the Cossacks and is a great lord.”

“I will go after him,” I exclaimed.

The dwarf looked at me askance, his brows wrinkled.

“There is danger there, O my master,” he said shrilly; “even there the prince is lord, and who he wills to live, lives, and who he wills to die, dies, and he rules the land, and his house is strong, and there are twenty-eight bolts to the terem, and lo! the windows thereof are barred, so that not even the sweet-singing bird goes through them, and he has serfs by the score, strong men with the crossbow.”

I laughed bitterly. “Your picture is enchanting, Maluta,” I said. “How goes it in Moscow?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “The Streltsi reign, excellency,” he replied, “and the Czarevna Sophia. The Czarevitch Ivan and the Czar Peter will be crowned together, as lords and czars, and she, too, will rule—as the cat”—Maluta stretched out his hand like a cat’s paw—“rules the mice, and Galitsyn is a great prince and fair in her eyes, and the Naryshkins run like rats, and men dare not squeak—but the master goldsmith is safe.”

And so Maître le Bastien’s letters told me and something more. There were despatches from my cousin in France; Mme. de Montespan had fallen and Mme. de Maintenon would befriend me; the king was inclined to clemency, the scandal of the duel had blown over, more money was forwarded from my estates, and I could come home! It would have been a joyful summons two months ago, but now—I tore the letter, for the goldsmith had added some sage advice and urged M. le Marquis to go back to France.

“Peste!” I exclaimed, tossing away the fragments of the letter, “I go south to-morrow—to the land of the nightingale and the despot!”

The dwarf plucked at my coat.

“I—I also, go with you, O my master!” he said.

XXXV: THE DWARF AND I

FOR three days and nights the dwarf and I rode southward, and ever southward, and so long and tedious was the journey and so eternal the sameness of the level landscape that it seemed as if we rode and rode, without ever advancing a day’s journey. Ah! those steppes of southern Russia, wide and level and unending; sweeping away from us on every side, until they seemed to drop over the rim of the world. They were green then, for it was June, and the cattle grazed where, after a while, there would be only a dry desert swept by the south winds. Not a tree grew near us, only in the upper courses of the rivers was there timber, and the moujiks burned straw and dried dung.

And while we rode the dwarf chattered to me of the power of the great Prince Voronin, and the rumours, current on the back stairs of the palace, of Sophia’s jealousy of Prince Galitsyn, and his love for the Princess Daria. A conversation that furnished gall and wormwood in plenty for my diet, and while showing me the insignificance of my cause and my efforts, only served to make me the more obstinate; for I have that in me that will not yield. As I journeyed, however, I reflected that I was no longer a youth, nor so handsome and graceful as to please a young girl’s eye at once, and here my rank and fortune counted as nothing. I found myself examining my suit—a plain and dark one of taffeta—such as a gentleman might wear on a journey, but not fit for the great occasion of wooing a princess, yet the change of apparel, that I had provided, was scarcely more gaudy, and I grew peevish, remembered that I had grey hairs besides, and a stern cast of countenance, and was almost tempted to ask Maluta’s opinion, but forbore.

Yet, for all my ill-humour at my own appearance, which was that of a soldier rather than a courtier, I could not mend matters, and so went on, pushing forward as rapidly as I could, for something warned me not to linger on the road. We passed through the hamlets as quickly as we could, being ever assailed there by the curious and the idle, and, indeed, but for the need of supplies, I would not have troubled them. Thus we lay ever at night under the stars and found no inconvenience, save on the last night of our journey, when we were already on the outskirts of the prince’s domain. We had learned, by diligent inquiry, that his party had preceded us by two days only, and that there were women in it, so I pressed on, and when we were but a day’s journey from the great house of Voronin, we lay in a deserted hut to pass the night. Here there were trees about us, sparsely set, but gigantic, and the prince’s château was but a short distance from the village below us, where the serfs dwelt together, they who tilled the fields about us, and served him night and day.

It was that evening while we were at supper that I asked Maluta if he would follow me to France, and, at the question, his small face seemed to wither, his eyes rolled, and his great wing-like ears quivered.

“Have I not served my lord?” he asked humbly.

“So faithfully that I would fain reward you,” I replied; “in France I have a house and lands by the sea; and there you could live and die in peace, under my protection. Will you follow me, Maluta?”

He shivered and looked over his shoulder. In the west the red of sunset trailed upward toward the zenith, in long scarlet feathers; on the wide scene shadows fell.

“Have I not served my lord?” he repeated; “for I owed him my life—for him have I risked it!”

“So you have!” I retorted kindly. I was lying full-length on the grass and I rose now on my elbow; “and I would repay you.”

He fell on his knees. “Then leave me here, O my master,” he whimpered; “here was I born, here have I lived, here, also, will I die. In the strange land I should perish—my heart would be empty. I should never see the great white city again—I should die! Yet, I owe my life to you, O excellency, and if you will it—take it!”

“Saint Denis, you little rogue!” I exclaimed; “do you think I would kill you by taking you away? But what can you do here?”

He knelt meekly, his hands clasped, his eyes rolled up, the picture of a saint, though he was as arrant a little knave as ever lived, when he wanted to be.

“Here I can live,” he said, looking at me with that sidelong glance of his; “here I see the great tower of Ivan Veliki, I hear the bells, I dance for their czarish majesties, and in the kitchens of the palace are pickled mushrooms, and oil of cinnamon, and sterlet soup, and pampushki, and——”

I laughed aloud; I recollected his greedy feast on the day of his rescue. Here was a soul that could not forsake the flesh-pots.

“There are also dainties in France, and your feast cakes, your pampushki, are but flour and garlic,” I said, but he shook his head dismally.

“At least, I will make you independent of the kitchens,” I said; “money I can give you.”

As I spoke, one of the horses—startled, as I think, by some noise of the trees—plunged, and but for his halter would have run away. I started to my feet and fastened both more securely, but Maluta fell to trembling and crossing himself.

“’Tis the second time,” he whispered; “’tis Koshchei or one of his legion!”

Koshchei, one of the demons of the forest, was the terror of the Russian heart, and believed in, as I think, more devoutly than the Virgin and the saints.

“’Tis a sure sign of danger,” cried Maluta, “and see yonder, O excellency, the storm-cloud rises. Stribog, the god of the winds, is abroad; ’twill be a wild night—we must take the beasts into the hut, for if the tempest comes and they escape us, we cannot walk.”

The wisdom of this and his superior knowledge of the Russian climate made me comply, and it was well, for though we were crowded to the door of the hovel, the beasts were safe, and it was a night of the wildest. The great black storm-cloud rolled up, covering the heavens and the earth with the blackness of the pit, and the wind, rising steadily, swept over those wide plains with furious power. The few trees that stood about us bent and creaked, feeble as reeds, and the rain came down in torrents, and all through the fury of the tempest Maluta shouted a weird song, kneeling sometimes, while the water swirled around his little figure, and again lifting his arms over his head and dancing to and fro, swaying back and forth, and calling for protection on Koshchei and his legion of evil spirits. Once or twice, as the storm broke above us, in all its fury, and the wind came sweeping wild and mighty across the steppes, and the black heavens showed strange copperish streaks, Maluta fell face downward, at the threshold of the hut, and seemed to wrestle with an invisible foe, crying to me that the place was filled with evil spirits and that Koshchei the Deathless rode the wind, until—between the little demon-worshipper and the demon of the tempest—I was fairly beset, and crossed myself to be sure that I was yet a Christian. And through all those long hours the wind wailed and the dwarf chanted, until, at last, morning broke suddenly on the wild scene and little by little the tempest subsided.

But it was full noonday before we could set out, and having to advance cautiously now, to avoid questions, we could not reach the house before nightfall. But we were nearing it and my heart beat high, although the dwarf rode beside me, a drooping figure, exhausted doubtless by his unearthly vigil, and fearful of meeting the evil spirits of the forest, the Leshy and the Baba Yaga.

It was toward the late hours of the afternoon that we became aware that a party—a large one, too—travelled to the westward of us, and in the same direction. To avoid them we turned further east and, though we made good speed, night had already fallen before we saw the lights of a large village, and Maluta told me that it lay between us and the palace of Prince Voronin. Determined to avoid all suspicion, we dismounted at the edge of the hamlet, and the dwarf agreed to stay with the horses while I went forward to reconnoitre, though he did not care for the arrangement, for he distrusted my ability as a scout, and feared to be alone in the wood. However, I had no mind to play a secondary part here and one of waiting, so I left him on duty with the horses, and slipping past the first straggling houses of the settlement sought for the road to the prince’s château, and I was led to find this by the peasants themselves, who were all thronging toward the great house, drawn—as I was to learn—by the prospect of a spectacle. Using all the precaution I could, I advanced along the outskirts of the throng and finally mingled with it unnoticed, as the serfs pressed on behind a procession of flaming torches that was winding up the road that led to the great house before us.

Even in the gloom of early nightfall I could distinguish the outlines of a large and imposing building, looming grandly amidst the level country, and surrounded by the huts of the village, which were little more than a growth of mushrooms by comparison. But, from what I heard about me, and from what I saw, I gathered that the party of travellers, that Maluta and I had avoided, had arrived and were proceeding in state to the castle, where—from the brightly illumined court-yard—I knew they were expected. Pushing my way carefully, but steadily, to the front, that I might be sure of drifting into the court with the crowd, I came, at last, close to the torches and saw the glint of scarlet tunics, and then intuition warned me and I was not surprised to recognise the man who rode—in state—through the great gateway, with the flare of torches flashing on his jewels and the gold brocade of his mantle. Mounted on a splendid horse and riding like a soldier and a prince, with his footmen before him and behind, was my rival, Basil Galitsyn.

And, as he dismounted in the centre of the court-yard, I entered the gateway unchallenged and passed along to the right, so that I almost faced him. Yet he did not see me—he was looking at the door and beyond it.

XXXVI: THE PRINCESS

THE light of a hundred torches filled the court-yard with a crimson glow, and shed broad and wavering flashes on the great solid building, with its grim look of strength and pride. On either side of the main entrance the serfs stood in double tiers, clad in white caftans banded with purple, and their wild, dark faces illumined by the streaming fire of the torches that they held aloft, fifty strong men on one side and fifty on the other; while farther off, in the corners of the great yard, and at the gateway, crowded men and women and even children, in every colour, from deep scarlet to pale pink, a living mass of creatures that served one lord, the thralls of the vast domain of this Russian prince, his slaves and his warriors. Above, the black smoke from the burning pine-knots hung heavily, and in the broad blaze of the fiery illumination below Prince Galitsyn had dismounted and advanced, slow and stately; magnificently robed, splendidly armed, the descendant of the Lithuanian monarchs looked every inch a prince and a king. Onward between the long lines of solemn, white-robed fire-bearers, and up the broad steps, he moved and I followed. In the confusion of the great throng I was unrecognised, and thought to be in his train. At the top of the steps he paused, and I looked beyond him into the lobby, lighted too by torches, and here, at the threshold, lay two great bears—skins, heads, and claws fairly intact—and stretched across the entrance from side to side, while in the centre of the lobby stood a table, which held a great silver salver, and on it was a silver image or oberis; before that the bread, and beside it a huge silver salt-cellar. A little behind this table stood Prince Voronin, and a young woman, whom I took to be his new wife, but I had eyes for neither, but only for the tall, slender, white-robed figure who stood at the table, looking directly toward us, her head lifted proudly, her dark eyes shining—the Princess Daria!

Galitsyn, too, saw no one but the princess. Obeying the custom of his people, he trod upon the heads of the bears and entered the lobby, and the princess, coming two steps forward, held out the bread and salt. Her hands were firm, and her round arms, but her face was pale—pale and luminous. He took the bread from her hands and broke it, and he tasted the salt, and the Prince Voronin, advancing, clasped him in a warm embrace. It was at this moment that Daria saw me. If she had been pale before, she now turned white to the lips, but swift as a thought she came to me, as I walked across the bears, and held out the bread and salt with hands that shook.

“Take it quickly!” she cried in a low tone; “eat it in the Virgin’s name!” and her voice quivered.

Not ignorant of the sacredness of the bond, I obeyed her, and as I did so, I heard Voronin’s deep tones.

“Who is there, Daria? I command you not to break bread with him!”

But she turned and looked at him, while I still held the hand that had given me the bread.

“He saved my life, O my father!” she said in a sweet, clear voice, “and he has tasted your bread and salt; surely then, he is your guest also, O excellency.”

And I felt her hand like ice.

Galitsyn had turned also and was gazing at me with a strange face. No doubt his breast was filled with contending emotions. Had I not escaped his ruffians and defied him? But the face of Prince Voronin froze into an image of stone, and only the eyes blazed fire, while the stranger at his side, his wife—as I had divined—bustled forward and caught hold of Daria, remonstrating loudly.

“He saved your life, yes, my daughter,” replied the prince, sternly scornful, “and his own; but since he is my guest, I will not hang him at the gateway. But leave his side—I command you!”

The princess had already dragged her hand from mine and she drew back now, and stood silent, her eyes on the floor, while I addressed her father.

“M. le Prince,” I said, “in spite of many difficulties, I have escaped from those who would have carried me to Archangel, and I have journeyed southward for the sole purpose of seeing the Princess Daria. I understand, monsieur, your reluctance to give your consent to a marriage brought about by the Czarevna Sophia, and in circumstances so peculiar. Nor do I blame you for refusing to intrust your daughter to a stranger, but, M. le Prince, I have upon me papers that will establish my birth and my rank, not entirely unsuitable for your consideration, and although a foreigner, monsieur, and a stranger, I love the princess deeply, so deeply that I will force no claim upon her. She is free to choose; if she will recognise the marriage, I am her devoted husband and lover, but she—and she alone—must choose.”

Prince Galitsyn could forbear no longer, his proud face flushed deeply.

“It would be well, sir,” he said haughtily, “to prove that your birth is equal to that of the princess; as for the marriage——” He snapped his fingers.

I eyed him coldly. “M. le Prince,” I said courteously, “permit me to suggest that you ask her imperial highness, Sophia Alexeievna, to support your suit to the Princess Daria,” and as I said it, I heard a rebellious titter, and saw Vassalissa, little rogue that she was, in the background.

Galitsyn turned from red to white, and his hand clenched on his sword, but he had no time to answer, for Voronin spoke.

“I have heard you, sir,” he said to me, “with amazement; yonder is the door; two minutes longer and my stewards will see that you find it or——”

“Remember the bread and salt, my uncle,” said Vassalissa softly, plucking at his sleeve.

He shook her off, but he bit his lip. As for me, I folded my arms on my breast and stood firmly, in the centre of the hall.

“M. le Prince,” I said quietly, “I am your daughter’s husband; I must speak to her, and learn her will from her own lips.”

“From the hands of my slaves, rather!” he cried fiercely, his eagle eye kindling. “Do you beard me in my own house, fool?”

“Nay, monsieur,” I replied, unmoved; “but I must have my answer. As she wills it—so will it be.”

His face worked furiously, Galitsyn muttered below his breath, fingering his weapon. All about us, in a constantly narrowing circle, gathered the fierce-eyed serfs. The red light of many torches rose and fell. Daria stood like a statue.

“Answer him,” commanded Voronin fiercely, “answer him, you little fool, and have it done; the fellow raves!”

“Madame,” I said to her, low and tenderly, “I love you—I am your husband, if you will. Answer me without fear or favour, for I will surely defend you.”

She looked up and her dark eyes met mine, and slowly, very slowly, the colour of an early rose came softly to her cheeks, but her expression was inscrutable. She looked indeed the picture of pride.

“Do you love me, madame?” I whispered. “Will you remain my wife?”

The stillness of the place was like the stillness of those vast steppes, out in the night. I heard her draw her breath—as in a dream, I saw the ring of fierce faces, the streaming fire, the proud figures of the two princes with their hands on their swords, and behind them the child, her cousin, watching with eager eyes. Outside, in the court, a thin, high voice began to chant the welcome song for the princely guest, but with it there was the clash of swords. She did not speak.

“Are you dumb, my daughter?” demanded Voronin scornfully. “Answer him—I bid you!”

“Nay, M. le Prince,” I said proudly. “Of her own free will or not at all.”

He bowed his head, smiling bitterly. “Do I force her?” he asked.

“Mme. la Princesse,” I said, “ask you, for the last time, will you answer me of your free will, or do you fear to do so?”

“Of my free will,” she answered, in a low voice, but very proudly.

“Will you be my wife still?” I asked gently. “Will you accept my love and henceforth bear my name?”

She took a step backward and stood quite alone and erect.

“I thank you, monsieur, for my life,” she said firmly, “and for standing between me and Kurakin—I thank you. But—it is well for you to go away—it is well to leave me. I cannot be—be your wife.” She hesitated, drew her breath quickly, and then added, in a clear low tone, “I do not love you.”

I bowed profoundly, and without a word I turned and walked across the bear skins, down the broad stone steps, into the crowded court, where I saw only hostile faces and the flash of naked steel.

XXXVII: THE WOMAN

I  WALKED out slowly through the crowd of serfs, beyond the flaming torches, beyond the swords and spears, and no man offered to stay me, though many stared—in no kindly fashion—at the foreigner and the stranger within their gates. But to me it was nothing; I felt myself a fool for my pains.

Leaving the throng at the entrance of the palace yard, I found the village lying below, dark and deserted, not even the voice of a child sounded there; the inhabitants had all been drawn to the master’s house. My footsteps alone sounded in the narrow lanes, and there was an aspect of desolation in this desertion. I went on, past the last house, and came upon Maluta, squatted cross-legged on the ground before the horses. He had made a little fire of brush-wood, and the light played fantastically on his face and his great ears. I stood looking at him a moment in silence and he looked back at me—wrinkling his face up and peering.

“I am going back to France, Maluta,” I said.

He made an inarticulate sound, clasping his knees with his long arms.

“I am a fool—a durak,” I added drily. “Come—we will ride.”

But he shook his head. “No, excellency,” he said, “not with these horses.”

Then I remembered. The dwarf was wiser than I; they needed rest. We were in a dangerous neighbourhood, but—at the moment—I cared little.

“Very well,” I rejoined; “we will ride at daybreak.”

He nodded approvingly, and began to spread out the food that he had brought with him. But I had no stomach for meat, and told him to devour it himself, which he did readily enough, for though his body was small his capacity was mighty, and I have never known him to fail to dispose of two shares. And while he ate I paced back and forth, at a short distance, busy enough with my own thoughts, which were of the gloomiest. Yet I had no great reason to cry out at my evil fortune; I had thrust myself into her life, why should I hope to win her heart? And without her heart, my claim upon her was nothing in my own eyes. Yet I was legally her husband, and how Prince Voronin meant to break that bond, unless by violence, I knew not. My experiences certainly justified the supposition that he would not leave any means untried, and I fell to musing on it, as I walked in the pitchy night—I wondered what would befall me next. Indeed, I kept my thoughts upon such matters to still those other and deeper reflections that bordered on pain. I loved her—and she? The thought of her would haunt me; the beauty of her face seemed to me—as it had that morning of the duel—to be purely pale and lustrous like a perfect pearl. The tall, young figure in its splendid robe, the long, thick braids of hair hanging on her shoulders and wound with pearls. I saw her constantly, her figure seemed to rise out of the blackness, and the pain of the vision stung me and would not be cast out. I turned and looked at the dwarf eating, much as swine eat.

“Maluta,” I said bitterly, “what think you of women?”

He stopped eating long enough to squint at me sideways, his hands full of bread and meat, the miniature of a glutton.

“‘A woman’s hair is long, her understanding is short,’ saith the proverb,” he replied sagely, and filled his mouth.

I walked away; it was not the first Russian proverb I had heard, and I found them little to my taste. A woman was as little regarded as a slave, and sometimes less, and yet a woman could prefer such a master as she might find there—and the woman I loved! Then came the thought of Galitsyn, and my blood tingled—if I could but measure swords with him! But did she love him? I knew not, but I smiled grimly at the thought of Sophia.

I looked out into the darkness, the vast steppe stretched before me and I heard the wind sigh. Bitterness and desolation lingered in my heart. What evil star had sent me to Russia? I remembered clearly that night of the ball on the Rue de Bethisi and the duel in the Place Royale. Ill fortune had haunted me since; but so be it, I had done it to defend a woman.

I lay that night on the bare ground and counted the stars, while the little glutton of a dwarf, my faithful friend, slept noisily at my feet. That night, and the bitterness of it, stand out in my life unforgotten. It was a quiet night, too, although, far off, I heard wild music and the sound of voices, but these voices died away at last, and the hours until dawn were long ones. I remember seeing the day break, keenly at the far-off rim of the plain, a June day, cloudless and serene.

Maluta slept still and I rose and walked away. It was barely light; a belt of fir-trees lay between us and the village, but I could see the turrets of the palace in the distance; dim and grey it lay, at least a third of a league from us. The ground rose a little to the left and was bare of trees, and I walked up to the crest of the small elevation and looked away, over the vast sweep of the steppes, at the pale beauty of the sky. The whole scene was tremulous with awakening light. As I looked I turned, and my glance fell on the dark shadows of the firs, the semblance of a road skirting the edge of the wooded land. Suddenly, I saw two figures on horseback at the edge of the trees, and involuntarily my hand went to my sword and remained there while I watched them. They halted, still in the shadow, and dismounted and one held the horses, the other came on alone, taking the beaten path that led straight toward me. I waited, curious but indifferent; I looked for an enemy and not a friend, but as the cloaked figure drew nearer, I perceived that it was a woman. A woman, hooded and muffled and alone. She came, at first swiftly as if by a determined impulse, and then more slowly, until—as she got within a few yards of me, she halted and stood still. I could not distinguish a single feature, but I could not mistake that outline; it was the Princess Daria.

Nor did I doubt her errand; she had come to warn me to flee for my life. I remembered the bread and salt, but I resented her charitable anxiety for my safety. Was I a slave or a coward? I stood quite still, therefore and left her to make the advances, and I saw that I was inflicting no light punishment upon her pride, for she stood hesitating, and once I thought that she was going to flee. Then she took her courage in both hands and came nearer, but she kept her hood close over her face.

“Monsieur,” she said very low and faltering, “monsieur, I came to—to thank you for—saving my life—for delivering me from Kurakin.”

“Nay, madame,” I replied coldly, “thank the saints for that. As for the marriage, surely the one bridegroom must have been as distasteful as the other.”

I could not see her face, but I saw her hands trembling as she clasped them together.

“You mistake, monsieur,” she said, very low, “I——”

“On the whole, you preferred me to Kurakin,” I interrupted bitterly. “I thank you, Mme. la Princesse. I have heard that he killed his first wife. Possibly a French gentleman is better than a murderer.”

She did not reply, but her head drooped.

“I congratulate madame,” I added, “on the swift transition. Prince Galitsyn will doubtless find a way to free you from any shackles that remain—of the marriage ceremony. For my part, I absolve you!”

Still she did not speak, but she raised her head proudly, I thought. My heart was as bitter as the wormwood that grows on the great steppes to the southwest of her home.

“I thank you, madame,” I went on, “for coming to bid me farewell, but it is a thankless task. You cast me off last night—and, if you love me not, I care not for your gratitude.”

She found her voice, but it was very low.

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she faltered. “I——”

She could say no more; for a moment we were silent; I, with folded arms, looking at her, she with her face hidden in her hood. Then she spoke again.

“Monsieur, I pray you go away,” she said. “Your life is in peril here; every hour, every moment increases the danger of your stay—it will be to—to die!” she ended with a little cry, suddenly laying her trembling hand on my arm.

But I remained unmoved. “Are you so eager to be rid of me?” I demanded coldly.

She did not reply; her hand fell from my arm, and I thought I heard her sob. My mood changed; I was both hurt and angry now.

“So,” I said, “you cannot wait for me to go—you must drive me away! I am your husband, madame, what if—after all—I pursue my claim upon you? What,” I went on steadily, “if I will not give you up?”

She still kept silence, but I saw her hands trembling, as she drew her hood closer.

“You are eager to cast me off, my princess,” I cried angrily, “but I am your lawful husband. You married me—not Kurakin—in the palace chapel. To whom, then, do you owe the first allegiance—your father or your husband?”

“Ah, monsieur,” she replied softly, “’tis a question that has cost me many a vigil, many a prayer! My father has little love for me, I fear, but I am still his daughter, and I would fain obey him, but——”

Her faltering voice quivered, and choked with a sob. I took a quick step nearer, and swiftly, but gently, I pushed back that hood, and looked into a pale, downcast face—not the face of the princess, but the woman.

“Daria,” I said, speaking as softly as she, and my voice broke too, with emotion, “is it possible—do you care for me?”

For a moment there was a pause, and there was the madness of suspense, and then she raised her head with her old dignity of mien and looked at me with radiant eyes.

“From the first, I think, a little—monsieur,” she murmured, “but—had I said so, they would have killed you!”

“A little!” I repeated passionately. “A little—after all—when I risked my life for your love, and it is, after all—only a little!”

Then she smiled, and the first sunbeams made her face luminous as the morning star.

“A little, I said, monsieur,” she whispered, “a little—at first!”

Then I drew her to me. “And now?” I cried; “and now, my princess?”

“Nay,” she said, “not the princess, but your wife, because”—she raised her head a little again and met my eyes—“because I love you, monsieur!” she faltered, blushing like a rose as I kissed her.

It was half an hour later; we had forgotten that the sun had risen, and were walking hand in hand, under the fir-trees, when Vassalissa came running toward us.

“You stay too long,” she cried; “too long! They will be calling for you, Daria Kirilovna. You must either return with me or flee.”

“And if she stays with me, mademoiselle?” I said, amused at the young girl’s eagerness; caring little for any risk that did not involve the princess.

“Then fly—for your lives!” cried Lissa, and she pointed to the tall figure of old Piotr, holding the horses, “there is not an hour to lose!”

“Ah, Lissa, Lissa!” cried my wife fondly; “how can I leave you here?”

The young girl mimicked her roguishly. “Will you stay with me, and leave him?” she asked, and then, running to her cousin, she covered her face and hands with caresses. “Go,” she cried, “go, my sweetheart, to happiness—here they would not let you have it. I am safe enough.”

But, while they clung to each other, with tears and kisses, I went and spoke a few words to the old steward, the one man whom Daria seemed to trust in that great retinue, and it was he who told me what course to follow, and assured me that he could hold back pursuit for twenty-four hours—just so long as the feigned illness that the princess had announced to the household could be sustained, just so long and no longer.

“After that, sir,” he said grimly, “if they take you, they will make short work, but with twenty-four hours——”

“They will not take me,” I said quietly, and I looked to my horse, hoof and girth and bridle, then I went back to where the two girls wept in each other’s arms.

I would have waited, unwilling to tear them apart, but Lissa thrust her cousin away.

“There!” she cried, between tears and laughter, “go and send me a husband who will not beat me. As for me—I must go back to the Princess Daria, who is ill,” and she held out her hand to me.

I kissed it, with sincere gratitude for her good offices, and I thanked her, but she came closer to me and looked straight into my eyes with her fearless blue ones.

“Be kind to her,” she said, very low, that Daria might not hear, “be loving and be true—for she is a woman as well as a princess, and she loves you!”

With that, the charming creature fled into the shadow of the firs, followed by old Piotr, who had parted from his mistress solemnly, and with tears. And the dwarf, mounting first, rode on, and the Princess Daria and I followed slowly—riding side by side—out into the sunrise of the world and of our lives.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] A Russian proverb.

[B] The black lands.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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