“No, no, it’s all the same. I want to know,” murmured Alexis. “Let the old man alone approach me! Don’t let the other one come near.”
He gripped his hand.
“For God’s sake don’t let that one come near me; look at him—— He has been sent by the Tsar to kill me! I know it!”
His face expressed such terror, that the Viceroy said to himself. “Who can depend on these barbarians? It might really be true,” and he remembered the Emperor’s words in the original instructions:
“Special precautions must be taken during the interview so that any assault may be frustrated. (The Muscovites are a desperate people, capable of anything.) However, I myself do not anticipate anything of the sort.”
“I pledge my life and honour that no harm will come to you. Trust me, your Highness.”
The Viceroy whispered to Weingart to have the sentinels doubled.
Meanwhile Peter Tolstoi was approaching the Tsarevitch with inaudible gliding steps, arched breast, a deferential air and lowest courtesies. His companion, Roumiantzev, Captain of the Guards, the Tsar’s orderly, of giant stature with an open handsome face resembling a Roman soldier and the Russian national hero, stopped at some distance near the door, at a sign from the Viceroy.
“Gracious Lord Tsarevitch, your Highness! a letter from your father,” said Tolstoi, and bending lower still so that the left hand almost touched the ground, he tendered with his right the letter.