An hour later and night had thrown her sombre mantle over the gay city. One by one as the hours crept on, the noise of returning revellers grew fainter and less frequent; gradually the peace of midnight settled down upon the myriads of human souls who make up the sum of Petersburg's life. The heavens were dark and formless, save for the millions of shining stars; Isaac's golden dome loomed up in giant outline against the sombre sky; only the glittering lance-like spire of Peter's fortress caught and held a transitory gleam upon its slender shaft.
And then presently a noise of wheels broke the stillness, wheels that came ever nearer and nearer; down the Boulevard first, and then into the Nevski, where the pace slackened, and a covered droschky drew up in front of the commodious and respectable house, before which Ivor had stood baffled.
Three persons got out of the carriage, two of whom were easily recognisable, despite the disguise of mufflers and low hats, as Patouchki and Tolskoi. Not a word passed between them, while Ivor, stepping a little in advance, knocked twice distinctly. Instantly the door swung back on its cord, and the three men entering shut it quietly behind them.
A light gleamed at the head of the stairs, and a woman's figure detached itself from the surrounding gloom. She held a lamp high up above her head, from which the close black bonnet had been removed. And thus looking down upon them, calm and unsuspecting, they saw the beautiful face of the fugitive Adèle Lallovich.
For, indeed, she was still very beautiful, despite the lines passion and pain had graven on her forehead, and about her eyes. The eyes themselves were deep blue beneath black pencilled brows; the dusky hair, wherein a thousand golden tints played at hide and seek, fell loosely about her throat; the curve of the lips was proud, with a touch of suffering in its downward droop.
This, then, was the woman they sought! This was the defenceless being against whom they came armed with Russia's law! This was Stevan Lallovich's wife—this was his murderer!
For a moment they hesitated, stayed by the fearlessness and dependence of her position; then Patouchki stepped forward and ascended the staircase. She watched him as he came, step by step, and she knew that her days were numbered.
She was alone in the house, save only for a little serving-maid; any resistance would be but vain. She did not mean to resist. She had prayed night and day for months that some release might come to her. Had she not that very evening begged Our Lady of Kazan to have a little pity upon her; to give her some little respite from the horrible dreams and spectres that haunted her; to let her forget for only one small fraction of time, the horror and reproach that had settled on her lover's face when she dealt him his death-wound?
Our Lady of Kazan never turns a deaf ear, it is said. Was not this her answer to that wild, imploring cry?
Patouchki reached her at last. She faced him boldly and with eyes that never flinched; the lamp in her upraised hand burnt on steadily, no tremble of weakness made its flame flicker, or grow dim.