Dunajewski and his comrades were now hopelessly lost, and Iván, no doubt, would be made to join them. Mirkovitch had said right, they none of them valued their lives and liberties; one and all of those martyrs out there in Moscow would willingly sacrifice both for the great cause, that was to free Russia for ever from the tyranny that places her in the hindmost ranks of civilisation.
Well, at least they should not remain unavenged! The last, lingering hesitation had vanished, the last feeling of honour and chivalry had died away; the refinement, to which Mirkovitch had so sneeringly alluded, was at last effectually smothered in the thirst for the annihilation of him, who was one of the hated crew, of him whom at least they held in their power.
No one noticed, as she entered some time after her father, that Maria Stefanowna was paler than usual, that her attentive, respectful attitude was changed to one of courage and determination.
The usual purposeless, wearying questions were put with regard to the possible news from Volenski, the usual conjectures put forward as to his probable fate, and that of the compromising papers.
Mirkovitch sat at the head of the table, drumming impatiently with his fingers, anxious evidently to hear the end of these barren conjectures and surmises.
“Too late to think of all that now,” he said at last, rising abruptly, unable to control his impatience; “let us to God take it for granted, that Dunajewski, Volenski, and the others are lost to us for ever, that on all of us the blow might fall at any hour, any moment, and let us give ourselves over in the meanwhile to the joy that is divine, the joy of vengeance.”
“Mirkovitch, you are right,” said a member of the committee; “I myself was one of those who wished to attain great ends by gentle means. I see now that we should all have been wiser to listen to your powerful counsels before; we should have saved our much-valued comrade, Volenski, from joining Dunajewski in a fate that we could not avert. There is no news of him to-day, though ten days have elapsed since he left us; he is either dead or a prisoner. I propose that sentence be passed on our captive, as, all but too soon, it will be passed on him.”
A curious joy illumined Mirkovitch’s stern features, a look of triumph flashed across his sunken eyes. His hands clenched, as if he already held in their grip the son of the great tyrant who ruled and oppressed the people; his tall figure seemed to grow even more majestic as he stood there, the prophet of that vengeance which is the Lord’s, the vengeance that would bring all the tyrants to their knees, grovelling in abject fear.
The president took no part in the proceedings, his whole being revolted against the bloodthirsty scheme, but he was powerless to withhold the tide of feeling, and therefore remained in implied, if not actual, approval.
Mirkovitch had said, “Let us vote,” and most hands were raised to give consent to the terrible deed. But Maria Stefanowna had at last gained sufficient composure, sufficient strength of mind to oppose her woman’s personality against this sea of masculine will-power.