Chapter 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_