‘Oh, foolish Chelminsky!’ exclaimed Mazeppa, ‘that is going out of thy
way, indeed, to find cause of quarrel with an old friend. I am attracted
by the wench, true enough; but must all men sigh for the same woman?
Fear not, so little do I suspect thee that I entreat thee to show thy
friendship for me by finding this girl, or helping me to find her.’
‘And this fellow--the spy who followed me: you know nothing of him?’
‘Nothing, my friend--what should I know? I may have my opinion--namely,
that he was a robber and no spy; but as for knowing--what should I
know?’
‘Swear it by thy horse and lance!’
‘Oh, most suspicious and unfriendly of friends, I do so swear, if so it
must be!’
‘Good; there is no more need for suspicion. If I catch the fellow
following again, I shall kill him at sight for a mere cutpurse, or
rather for a would-be cutpurse.’
‘Do so, my friend,’ said Mazeppa; ‘he deserves his fate for having come,
in a manner, between old friends.’
‘Verily, Mazeppa,’ I thought, as I left my fox, ‘thou art a most
wondrously gifted liar!’ For indeed he had lied thoroughly, even taking
our Cossack oath in witness to his falsehood, without the twitching of
an eyelid.
This day I went out to visit Vera once again at her monastery, but
though I looked constantly and carefully for followers I observed none,
and it is certain that I was not watched. I reached the sanctuary in
safety, moreover, and was received first by the Superior, who was
pleased to see me.
‘For thy fair friend perishes to hear news of all that is happening at
home and at Court,’ she said; ‘and, if the truth must be known, I
believe she will not be averse to see her preserver and knight, being
somewhat anxious for his safety lest he be suspected of capturing and
concealing her.’
‘Let her come, good mother,’ I said, ‘for indeed I begin to think there
is no sight on earth that delights me more than her fair face.’
‘Ah--ah! said I not so?’ murmured the good soul, gently patting my arm
as she left the room to fetch Vera. ‘So the faithless maid who
preferred her chance at the _terem_ to thy assured love is already
forgotten? Oh, man, man! this Vera is too good for so faithless a
swain!’
‘It is not my fault, mother,’ I said; ‘do not speak me ill to Vera. I do
not fawn where I am beaten; I can show a true heart when I am shown
one.’
‘Well, well! hers is golden, my friend, little doubt of that: he who
wins it must prize it too highly to give her in exchange a thing of
dross.’
Vera entered, blushing and excited.
‘Is all well?’ she said. ‘Good Chelminsky, tell me quickly!’
‘Well, and very well,’ I replied; ‘though it almost went very ill, for I
was spied upon yesterday, being suspected of knowing your whereabouts.’
‘Suspected! and by whom?’
‘By a very cunning person, whose wiles are infinite, and whom I should
name “the father of lies” if that title had not already been
appropriated by an ally of his----’
‘But who--who?’ she cried.
‘Oh, who but Mazeppa!’ and when I told Vera the whole story of the spy
and his confession and Mazeppa’s denial, she agreed that this was indeed
a deceiver of whom it was necessary to beware.
‘But what of the palace and of my father?’ continued Vera. ‘Have I been
missed by the Regent, and what has my father done? for he, of course,
has long since discovered that I have left home.’
‘At the palace they are so busy weeding out the plainer blooms that the
fairest flowers are for the present neglected; therefore, you have not
been asked for. As for your father, I hear privately that he is most
distressed that you should attempt to evade the glorious destiny which
Providence and his own parental solicitude have opened to you. He has
forbidden any word to go out concerning your disappearance, lest it
should be known at the palace. He reckons upon finding you before your
disappearance is known to the Regent.’
‘Oh, for the love of Christ, good Chelminsky, he must not--he must not!
Were you careful in your going this day? Are you sure you were not spied
upon and your destination noted? My father is as cunning, maybe, as
Mazeppa himself.’
‘I am certain that my coming was not observed. I frightened my former
friend too well; he remained in safety at home, be sure, and there was
no other. I tell you I doubled and dissembled in my going as a bear does
at the first snowfall, when he chooses his winter’s lair and would put
trackers off the scent.’
Vera laughed for joy, her apprehension relieved. ‘Thank God if that is
so, and thank you also, good Chelminsky; be sure your kindness is not
forgotten. But what steps has my father taken to find me?’ she asked,
growing grave again suddenly.
‘He has sent word to your country estate. Your nurse declared that you
had threatened to go there if pressed.’
‘It is true, it is true!’ cried Vera, clapping her hands. ‘I did so. Oh,
Chelminsky, it is a four days’ ride at the quickest, and four back--that
is eight days. By the time they return the Tsar may have made his
choice, and I shall be safe.’
‘Good, and very good; let us hope it may be so. Meanwhile,’ I continued,
lowering my voice--for the good Mother Superior sat reading her holy
book at the other end of the room, being present according to the law of
the community--‘supposing it were suddenly suggested that you might be
here, and the place were searched, would you be safely concealed?’
‘I am told that it may be done, but I should be frightened, indeed, if
it came to that. Let us hope that such a danger may not arise.’
‘Yes, let us hope so,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless they hope best who have
assured the future; therefore decide beforehand what is to be done in
case of surprise. If there is a private chapel, hide in the Holy Place.’
‘How can I? No woman is admitted there.’
‘Well, I think our old friend here is not one to stand upon ceremony in
emergency. There is no resident priest; no one will prevent you. Think
of it. It is a good hiding place, and I am glad I thought of it. Suggest
it to the mother in the moment of danger, and you will see.’
A moment of danger came most unexpectedly, even as we sat there and
whispered together; indeed, a truly unfortunate and mistimed occurrence,
and one that must have had terrible consequences, but for the most
wonderful mercy of God, the protector of the innocent.
For even as we spoke of possible danger, there rang out a loud and
startling peal at the great bell which hung in the entrance hall.
The Superior started to her feet. ‘A visitor,’ she cried, ‘and oh, how
ill-chosen an hour! Be comforted,’ she added, seeing our frightened
faces, ‘I will tell the door-keeper to admit no one.’
She left the room. Vera clung to my arm, and I drew her to me.
‘Be not afraid, Vera; I will protect you though all the world rage at
the gates demanding you.’
‘Oh, Chelminsky, I am frightened!’ she said. ‘Do not let them take me to
the Tsar; I will not live to be his wife. I will tell him so. Oh, God
help me, God help me!’
‘He will help you, never fear,’ I said. ‘In this I shall be God’s
soldier; I shall fight the better knowing that the protecting of you is
the service of God!’
‘Give me your sword,’ she said suddenly; and, drawing it herself from
the scabbard, she first made the sign of the cross over it, and then
kissed it thrice.
‘Let it pass through my body rather than see me carried back to the
_terem_,’ she said. ‘I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid of Sophia
and of Ivan: his touch is poison to me.’
‘Well, I will fight to the death first,’ I said.
Meanwhile the great door had been opened and I heard a parleying. There
were men’s voices and the voices of the Superior and the old woman who
kept the door. The voices grew louder, and there was one which seemed
familiar, though I did not as yet recognise it. This voice grew more
threatening, appearing to insist upon some point which the Superior
contested.
Suddenly I recognised that louder voice: it was that of the young fellow
Rachmanof, with whom I had had a set-to on behalf of his sister, whom he
attempted to carry off from this very sanctuary. The discovery filled me
with joy.
‘Be of good cheer, Vera,’ I whispered; ‘they come not for thee, but for
the sister of this young Rachmanof. We were frightened too soon, wench;
they are not thinking of thee; thou art safe!’
‘Oh, thanks to Him from whom are all mercies!’ she began; but at this
moment there came loud cries for help from the Mother Superior and the
other woman, and I could do nothing less than rush out to their succour.
On the single flight of steps that led to our ante-room, as well as to
the door which communicated with the main building, I saw a notable
spectacle, and one which has lingered in my memory.
First, near the top of the stairs, stood the tall, gaunt form of the
good mother, holding her great silver cross aloft as she cried for help.
A few steps below her stood Rachmanof, sword in hand. God knows whether
he had meant to strike the old woman down or merely to frighten her, but
there was the sword.
At the foot of the stairs were two other young fellows, dressed in the
uniform of the Streltsi regiments. These two held between them the form
of the old doorkeeper, having gagged her mouth to stop her crying.
Their lips had been opened to laugh, but at sight of me their faces
settled into a grim expression, and Rachmanof flushed and looked
furiously angry.
They had shut the outer door behind them, fearing, doubtless, that any
uproar might assemble a crowd whose attitude would be hostile to them.