Scarce a word passed between the Tsar and Tsarina, or their suite; the pall of absolute silence which enfolds great Petropavlovsk in the dark mantle of submission, had descended also upon them, and so held them captive as to kill any outward expression of inward emotion. Sometimes it was the "Judas" only that was lifted, and then the Tsarina would turn away her eyes and refuse to look, standing apart with anxiety and sadness written on her pale face; and when this happened, Olga would separate herself from Ivor, and waiting silently by her Royal mistress, watch her every motion with the sympathy of comprehension.
And so the weary task dragged on its heavy chain; there remained but one more cell, and then this horrible nightmare of duty, this travesty of inspection, would be over, and they might hurry away from out this gloom and depression, and seek once more the brilliant sunshine, the gaily-thronged streets, where at least the grim spectres of despair and desperation, if they stalked among the careless mummers, were out-balanced by the laughter and jesting of the merry-makers.
At length they reached the last casemate of all, and as the door was unbolted and thrown open, the Emperor and Patouchki stepped across the threshold. Seated on the iron pallet, his arms thrown out across the table, was an old man, whose head was white with the snows of many winters. He neither moved nor spoke as those without came towards him; his hands were waxen in colour, nerveless, and attenuated; the blue dressing-gown hung loosely upon his emaciated form; his face was hidden on his arm. Something in the intense stillness and rigidity of the attitude, in the absolute rest that had fallen upon him, startled the beholders with a vague sense of fear.
At a word from the Tsar, Patouchki crossed the cell and laid his hand upon the bowed shoulders. A shudder passed over the form, followed by a long and weary sigh, and then the head was lifted, and two feverish, bright eyes gazed out of the hollow sockets. For a moment he looked at them bewildered, and then, with a sudden, thrilling cry, he flung himself forward and fell at the feet of the Tsar, exclaiming in broken, feeble tones:
"Blessed be God in Sion; He has heard my prayer! Blessed be our Lady of Kazan! It is the face of my Tsarawich I see once more; it is the face of my little father—my Tsar! Oh, my Emperor, I am Alexis—Alexis of Battenkoff. I am an old man of over four-score, who, for fifty long years, served your father—my Tsar Alexander—and who, after all that time of faithful love and devotion, have been left to rot in this terrible pest-house for two long weary years. Pardon me, little father, pardon me! I have done no wrong, believe me. I have never plotted against my sovereigns; I have loved them always, and served them to the extent of my poor abilities. I had no hand in that bloody murder; I was innocent of all participation in it. I would have given my life's blood to save my Emperor. Why should I seek his death! Pardon me, my little father, as your sire, whose soul sees me now, would have pardoned me!"
As the last words passed from his lips the old man sank back, his hands twitched convulsively, and he fell on the floor in a swoon. So sudden had been his movement forward and so rapid his utterance, neither the officials nor Patouchki had time to interpose, but the latter now stepped quickly forward, as the Tsar, with a gesture, motioned to him to approach, and after giving him some directions, speaking earnestly and decisively, turned abruptly and left the cell. Neither the Tsarina nor Olga Naundorff had entered this casemate, the Empress's tender heart had therefore been spared the harrowing scene.
As the Imperial party drove away from the terrible fortress, and the brilliant sunshine caught at the glittering harness and bright trappings of the guard, a cry arose on the boulevard: "It is the Tsar, and our Tsarina! Long live the little father! Long live the Tsar!" But neither God's sunshine, nor the loyal shouts of his people could bring back the colour to the Emperor's face, or banish the look of care and anxiety that rested so heavily upon it.
The next morning an Imperial pardon was sent to Petropavlovsk for Alexis Battenkoff, but it came too late. The weary spirit and sorely wounded heart were at rest in eternity; the old man's soul had passed beyond all earthly pardon, into the Almighty hands of justice and recompense.