would be a follower of mine.”
He gave me one of his sidelong looks and shrugged his shoulders.
“Come then,” he said, “and blame me not, if ill comes of it.”
I walked gravely up to the princess and held out my hand.
“Will you trust me?” I asked, looking her full in the face, “and go
with me?”
She returned my look proudly, and she did not touch my hand.
“Take me to my father,” she repeated mechanically, her face colourless
again.
“Come, then,” I said coldly, feeling the hot blood burn in mine, for
I was provoked at her refusal to even touch my hand, and yet I knew,
all the while, that it was a petty anger to feel, at such a time, and
against a woman tried beyond all reason.
And in this order we proceeded out of the painted gallery into the
chapel again and to the door on the other side: Maluta first, then the
princess, and last the new-made husband--a rôle in which I confess
I did not know myself. The chapel was deserted, and only one taper
burned before the iconostase, and in the dim light I stumbled once
and suppressed an exclamation, but the dwarf and Daria walked on,
surely and swiftly, passing out into a gallery lighted from above, and
coming at once to a long flight of stone steps that led down and down,
seemingly to the cellar, for a light shone across them half-way down,
where they opened on a landing, and the lower part again dropped into
darkness. On either side were sheer walls, groined and arched above
us, save at the landing where, as I have said, there was an opening.
We paused at the top and listened; there was no sound below us on the
stair, though there were confused noises echoing from other portions of
the building, and an awful consciousness prevailed that the death work
went on merrily below and around us.
Satisfied that no one was on the stair, Maluta started down ahead of
us, lightly and softly, as he alone could tread, swinging forward to
listen, his long monkey-like arms dangling at his sides, his wing-like
ears standing out more than ever. The princess was about to follow him,
but a sudden thought made me stop her.
“Permit me, madame,” I said, and walked ahead of her, pistol in hand;
“it is better that I precede you here.”
She assented quietly, drawing aside more sharply, I thought, than need
be, to let me pass. However, there was no time for quibbles, and I
descended cautiously, content to feel that she was with me. We had gone
down, perhaps ten or fifteen steps, and were, therefore, about as far
from the landing, when there was a sudden burst of sound from the left,
as if a door had opened somewhere and let out pandemonium, and Maluta
stopped, stooping down to listen. But even he was taken by surprise
when a man leaped from the gallery below on to the landing and came up
toward us, running madly, so blind, indeed, that he nearly stumbled
over the dwarf and cried out in terror when he saw us. His rich dress
was covered with dust and blood, and his eyes were starting out of his
head. He gave us a wild look and was about to turn and dive down the
stairs, when I called out to him in Russ.
“Have no fear, we will not harm you--where is the danger?”
“The Streltsi!” he cried; “they’re after me,” and seeing that we made
no effort to bar his way, he leaped up two steps at a time, brushing
past us, and rushed into the chapel.
And before we could either advance or retreat, we heard his pursuers
coming toward the landing.
“Back!” I cried, and the princess, foreseeing the danger as quickly
as I, turned with me, and we all ran back up the stairs, in hopes of
reaching the chapel before the rioters gained the landing.
The princess was ahead of me and laid her hand on the door just as I
reached it.
“It is locked!” she cried, and there was a tremor in her voice.
I shook it, and threw myself against it with my whole force, but it
would not yield--the fugitive had barred it and cut off our only means
of escape, for below us half a dozen mutineers began to ascend with
fierce cries of baffled rage. I thrust the princess behind me into the
shadow of the doorway, and Maluta darted after her, crowding against
her feet, while I stood alone at the top of the stair, facing the
savages as they came on. I was no boy; I had seen five pitched battles
in my life, and I was under fire with the household troops at Seneffe,
but I confess that none of these things moved me so much as those half
dozen men leaping up that dim old stair, with just light enough to
flash on their naked blades and show the whites of their wild eyes. A
surly, mad, long-haired, long-bearded lot, with blood upon them and the
reek of slaughter.
It takes long to tell it, but it was not long before they were upon
me--crying for blood and vengeance.
_XIX: AT NIGHTFALL_
AT first I think the rioters took me for the boyar they were pursuing,
for they leaped upward, yelling triumphantly, but the foremost, looking
into the muzzle of my pistol when he expected an unarmed man, fell back
a little on the others, and gave me time to speak.
“In the name of Sophia Alexeievna,” I said, remembering the magical
effect of the password, “what seek ye here at the door of the chapel?”
“One of the Naryshkin rogues,” they cried; “and what are you?”
“A follower of the Czarevitch Ivan,” I said, and held up the signet.
They stood huddled together, uncertain for the moment, but already
hungry for my blood. In that hour it mattered little whether I was a
Naryshkin or a Miloslavsky; moreover, I saw that one of the knaves had
caught sight of a woman’s figure behind me. I held my finger on the
trigger of my pistol; it would cost them dear, but I had no hope of
conquering six.
“He lies!” muttered one in the rear, a great brute whose brawny arms,
bare to the shoulders, were smeared with blood; “he is a Naryshkin, or
one of their accursed foreigners; he cannot talk without a twist of
the tongue.”
“There’s a woman behind him,” cried another, and at that they began
to laugh in a manner that might well have chilled the blood of the
strongest.
There were just three steps between us, and I held my pistol over them.
“I have the signet of Sophia Alexeievna,” I said fiercely, “and I hold
this stair. He who comes up a step further comes at his peril.”
“_Kukureku!_ The cock crows loudly,” cried the ringleader, mocking
fiercely, “let us cut his comb!”
“And steal his mate!” cried another, provoking a loud laugh by this
delicate witticism.
Yet something in my aspect and the weapon held them three steps down;
but it could not be for long. I was at my wit’s end, and I heard those
below begin to growl at the delay. I thought of the princess with a
sickening horror; it would be over my dead body, but it would surely
come.
Then, suddenly, a small creature darted out from under my arm and began
to shriek:
“Look--look below--on the landing! There is Ivan Naryshkin--Ivan, the
traitor--Ivan, the brother of the czarina!”
They turned with a howl, they forgot me, they began to plunge downward,
and Maluta, springing through them like a flash, ran ahead, screaming:
“This way--this way! I saw him, and with him the Jew poisoner, Von
Gaden; they fled this way--this way, I say!”
They followed like a pack of wolves, down and away into the gallery to
the left, and the princess and I stood alone upon the stair. Her senses
came to her more swiftly than did mine.
“Quick!” she cried, touching my arm, forgetful of her aversion,
“quick--let us go down before they return!”
I needed no second warning; I caught her hand in mine and we fled down,
down--past the landing, where we heard their cries, far off now--down
into the darkness below, until we came to the door at the foot of the
stairs. I tried it, but it would not yield, it was fastened on the
outside; a trick, no doubt, of the mutineers. It was so dark there that
we could only see each other dimly, but I felt her horror and dismay
and shook the door with all my strength, but it would not open, and
then we heard a shout above us, either the same rioters returned or
others came. I threw myself against the door, and in doing so stumbled
to one side and felt something yield. There was a clamour on the
landing now, and they might come either way. I turned and felt the wall
beside me, found a latch, lifted it, and a door--narrow and low, but a
door--opened inward. The place was dim, but I could see a stair, and I
seized the princess and lifted her across the threshold just in time
to escape the flare of a torch above us. I set her gently down on the
steps, and, swinging the door to, found a bar beside it, dropped it in
the socket, and secured it firmly. For a moment, at least, we had a bar
between us and the rioters. Then I turned and, half carrying Daria, I
descended five or six steps and found my feet on the ground, and here I
was forced to pause and look about me.
We were in a cellar, and a large one, the floor was of earth, reeking
with dampness, and above the dark vaulted ceiling hung with great brown
cobwebs. It was lighted by narrow openings, wide as a man’s hand, high
up, on a level with the pavement of the court-yard and distributed at
intervals for the sake, not only of light, but of ventilation. But,
even with these, it was exceeding dim and mouldy, and smelled too,
of liquor, for it was lined at one side with great wine-butts. The
cellar, which was longer than it was wide, extended under, at least, an
eighth of the palace, and on the farther side there must be an opening
into the court, which would afford us an avenue of escape. I listened
attentively, and hearing no one at the door by which we entered, I
concluded that our pursuers must have lost track of us, and gone upward
instead of down. Satisfied that I had nothing to fear, for the moment,
from that quarter, I began to search hastily for a door to let us out
of the palace, and midway, on the farther side, I found it--a strong
low door, secured within by a cross bar and furnished with a grille;
opening this cautiously, I peeped out. The door, being level with the
floor of the cellar, was beneath the ground, and outside a rough flight
of five or six stone steps led up into the court-yard. So far escape
seemed easy, but the upper step being still a foot below the grille,
allowed me to look over it into the space beyond, and the first thing
that caught my eye--on the very step itself--was a blood-red hand,
severed from some man’s arm and clenched still, with a long lock of
hair in its rigid fingers, showing that it had not given up, even in
death. A little further off lay a body, the rich dress disordered, the
feet--stiff and straight--turned toward me. And close at hand a gang of
Streltsi seemed to be on guard; perhaps, five or six in all, too many
certainly for one man, and that man hampered by a woman. While this
conviction forced itself upon my unwilling mind, and I saw that we were
no nearer an escape from the trap than before, I became aware that the
princess had followed me across the cellar and stood close behind me.
The comparative quiet without had deceived her and she was in no mood
for delay.
“Come, sir,” she said excitedly, “take me to my father!”
I turned and shook my head.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“Not yet?” she repeated wildly. “If we delay, they will kill him--he
is in the Golden Hall, so said the czarevna--and they will kill him!
I must go to him. Where is your honour, sir?” She added sharply, “You
promised!”
The light shining in at the grille showed me her disdain.
“Yes, I promised,” I said coldly, taking in every detail of her face
and figure, beautiful and commanding and scornful even here; “I
promised, but now it is impossible.”
“I do not believe it,” she cried passionately; “let me go!”
I had not meant to let her see that sight, but her unreasonable anger
and distrust led me to it. I let her pass me and look through the
grate. As she did so there was another burst of madness without, shouts
and cries. She turned from the grille with a shudder and walked away,
perhaps five or six yards, in absolute dejection. I said nothing, but
at least it was good to be justified. However, I knew that worse might
come, at any moment, and that it behoved me to be prepared. I could
think of no expedient save to wait until nightfall. I had no way of
measuring time, but had remarked the length of the shadows without,
and thought the afternoon must be well advanced. When darkness came,
we might escape; in daylight it was absolutely impossible. If, in the
meantime, the cellar was searched, as it might be, was there a place
to hide? I walked around it deliberately, and found no alcoves; there
were the wine-butts, and that was all. Examining these, I found that
a quarter of the number were empty, especially those in the farther
corner, and had been empty long, for, feeling as far as I could reach,
I found them dry and warped even in that unwholesome place. After this
excursion, I returned to where the princess stood, and seeing an old
bench near the door, dragged it forward.
“We must wait until nightfall, madame,” I said quietly, “and I commend
even this bench for you to rest upon. You will need all your strength,
and it is well to reserve it.”
At first she did not heed me, and then she thought better of it, and
sat down on the bench, leaning her head on her hands and looking
steadily away from me. I had carefully closed the grille, and the
little light from the narrow and infrequent openings at the top of the
wall served only to show her in outline. I found a small cask not far
off, and sitting down, too, fell into a reverie. My first thoughts were
of Maluta. His quick-witted stratagem had saved us, and I wondered if
he had saved himself, and if he would find either the Prince Voronin or
me again. That Voronin would escape seemed to me impossible; someone
must, ere this, have found Kurakin, and Kurakin and Sophia would
scarcely save the prince. From this my thoughts went back to their
loadstar, she who sat before me in an attitude of deep dejection. I
confess that the swift happenings of the day filled me with amazement,
and as I looked at her, at her slim young figure and bowed head, I
felt the keenest pity for her. I had married her; the thought that
she was lawfully mine, even now, sent the blood tingling through my
veins, but I had done it on the impulse of the moment, partly to save
her from worse, but chiefly, I had to admit it to myself, because I
loved her, and had loved her from the hour that I saw her in Maître le
Bastien’s workshop; but what of her? I looked long and anxiously at
that outlined figure and tried to divine her thoughts. What could they
be? She was married to a stranger--I was little more, and, as she must
think, an inferior. She was a fugitive, too, and she was separated from
Galitsyn. Ah, Saint Denis, therein lay the devil’s pang! Did she love
Galitsyn? She had as good as confessed his love for her, and did not
the locket presuppose hers for him? And I--like a fool--had wedded her,
against her will! I sat and tormented myself with these reflections,
and similar ones, watching her all the while, and feeling the charm--a
subtle, but a sure one--of her presence. She had feared Kurakin and
hated him, she had preferred death--but did she prefer me? Nothing in
her manner went to tell me so, I thought bitterly, and yet--rather
than die--she had gone through the ceremony of marriage with me, and
afterwards disdained to touch my hand! Was she thinking of Galitsyn now?
We sat thus, in silence, until the little light there was flickered out
and we were left in darkness, and I watched the openings to see the
night thicken without also, but--to our discouragement--the sounds in
the court-yard increased, rather than decreased, and from an occasional
flash, I knew that torches were burning there. All this while she had
neither spoken nor moved, but now that I could not see her face at all
she addressed me abruptly:
“Did you kill him?” she asked, in a strange voice.
Her question startled me, and then I realised that she was thinking of
Kurakin, and my sudden appearance in the chapel, which must have seemed
inexplicable to her.
“No,” I replied deliberately, minded to whet her curiosity and see what
she would say; “I did not kill him, though I borrowed these petticoats
of his--which do torment me.”
Silence and darkness, but I felt that she was not satisfied.
“You borrowed his clothes?” she said, in a tone of perplexity. “Was he
then a party, too, to your appearance there?”
“An unwilling one, madame,” I replied, and laughed in spite of myself.
Silence and thick darkness; then her voice:
“I do not understand.”
“I was in the gallery with you and the czarevna,” I said quietly. “I
heard you say you would rather die than wed Kurakin.”
“You were there?” in a tone of amazement.
“Yes, madame.”
A long pause; then her voice; through the gloom, with its disdainful
note:
“And you thought I preferred you--a stranger--to death?”
“To Kurakin--possibly, my Princess.”
“Then,” I heard her draw her breath before she went on, “then--you--you
married me--to save me from that miserable wretch?”
“Nay,” I replied slowly, “I married you because I loved you.”
She made a little exclamation, and we were both silent for a long while.
“It is a pity,” she said bitterly, “to be born a woman.”
Something in her tone touched me deeply.
“You wrong me,” I said, in a low tone; “if you will but trust me, all
may yet be well. Will you trust me, Princess Daria?”
I heard her breath come hard again, and there was a pause, brief but
big with doubt.
“I do trust you, monsieur,” she replied, but I knew it cost her an
effort. “I have already trusted you!”
An answer from my heart sprang to my lips, a rush of passionate desire
to win her confidence, but I had no time to voice it. Quite suddenly
there was an outburst of voices outside the cellar door, steps on the
stone stair, and men battering on the door with such force that it
shook. There was no time to reach the other entrance, and it offered no
safe retreat, neither had I time to think; I sprang up and caught the
princess in my arms and made my way back, among the wine-butts. She was
a woman of such spirit that she made no outcry or struggle, and we were
both silent. We heard them place a ram against the door and the shout
went up to force it.
I reached the empty butts, in the corner, and lifted her into one,
whispering to her to crouch low, and then I climbed into another,
beside it, just as the door fell inward with a crash, and the red flare
of a torch showed me five or six men on the threshold, armed with
swords and spears.
_XX: THE ESCAPE_
I CROUCHED low in the wine-butt, that I might not be seen, and so saw
nothing of the rioters, after that first glimpse. But, above my head,
the red glare from their torches lighted the gloomy arches fitfully,
and their figures cast gigantic black shadows on the walls. They rushed
in, with a roar of triumph, and began to beat about for victims, and
from their actions and their voices, I knew that they were already
flushed with liquor and were as much in search of that as of imaginary
traitors. A day of murder and of license had drawn to its close, and
these men, gorged with blood and wine, were in a high good humour; they
shouted to each other merrily, and roared with laughter because one of
their number, more tipsy than the rest, began to fight his own shadow
on the wall.
“Have at the rogue, Vasali!” they shouted derisively. “Cut the fellow
to pieces.”
At which the sot cried thickly that he could not, the black devil
danced as fast as he did! And he added a coarse volley of oaths which
made his companions hold their sides with laughter.
But their mirth, horrible enough at best, was the more dangerous
because it could be easily turned into fury, and I confess that beads
of cold perspiration gathered on my forehead when I thought of the
princess, only a few yards from them, and almost at their mercy, for
my strength would be nothing against theirs, the puny strength of one
man against six. From their talk and the sound of their movements
I gathered that one of them had clambered up the steps to the door
by which we had entered, and shaken it, but he was too far gone to
perceive the cross bar and came toppling down again, swearing at his
defeat, and fell across a cask that two others were rolling toward the
other entrance, whereupon, the three fell to fighting, and in a moment,
a wild scream and a thud told me that one drunken wretch had been sent
to his last account. Then the others fell upon the wine-butts and began
to roll them out to the stone steps, crying that they would have a fête
in the Red Place and drink the health of the Czarevitch Ivan and Sophia
Alexeievna. But at the steps they got into difficulties, for as fast as
they rolled a great cask up, it rolled back on the drunken fools and
then they fought each other.
The red light streamed up overhead and played wildly on the dark
arches, and the smoke of their torches floated up too, in black
wreaths, and hung there, dim and ghostly, while these demons quarrelled
and screamed, merry and murderous by turns, and time seemed eternity.
Then they got one cask up and doubtless opened it at once and began to
drink, for I heard their wild satisfaction after tasting it; they came
howling down again for another cask, and a repetition of the scene at
the steps.
“Out with the wine!” cried one of the ringleaders, “out with every
cask. By our Lady of Kazan, we will be merry!”
At this, I knew our fate was certain if we lingered where we were, for
the wine had drawn other mutineers, as it draws flies, and the smell of
it--poured out upon the ground--reeked with the smell of blood already
spilled there.
Lifting my head cautiously, I peeped over the ledge of my butt and saw
the red torches planted in the earth and flaring upward. I saw, too,
the dead body of the soldier who had been stabbed on the cask, and yet
another lay dead at the threshold, while his comrades trampled on him
as they rolled out the hogsheads. I waited and listened with bated
breath. The same struggle occurred, the same mishaps, and then they got
a great butt up and rolled it away into the court-yard, and they all
poured out of the cellar after it, screaming and fighting, and left
only the dead and the two torches, burning low now, and smoking. At
the door it was dark, beyond it I heard them begin to sing--or rather
bellow--a Tartar war song. Then I sprang out of my hiding-place and
touched the princess on the shoulder.
“Quick,” I whispered; “there is one chance in ten thousand! To stay is
death!”
She had been crouching low, but she rose at my voice and I saw her
face, in the red torchlight absolutely pale, but still and almost
emotionless. I think she had borne so much that it seemed now like a
hideous dream. She let me lift her out of her hiding-place, and when I
would have carried her she slipped to the ground.
“Nay,” she whispered, “we can fly faster so,” and she followed me
toward the door, though I saw her shudder at the sight of the dead man
on the threshold.