Part 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I must go there!” she cried desperately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_XXI: THE STEWARD’S REVENGE_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you save him?” I asked grimly.

My only answer was a low sob.

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

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

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

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

“I will go--to Troïtsa,” she said.

I bowed profoundly.

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

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

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

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

It was his hour of vengeance, but his last.

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

_XXII: A DRUNKEN ORGY_

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

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