Chapter I: HAD entered the hall, and the dwarf closed the door and secured it (2)

“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.