Peter turned round to go out. But Alexis, hearing his father move towards the door, hurried after him on his knees, like a dog, which, though beaten, still begs for pardon. He clung to his feet, embraced and held on to them.
“Don’t go away, don’t—rather kill me.”
Peter tried to push him away and free himself. But Alexis held on, clinging tighter and tighter.
The touch of these hands, which convulsively gripped and held him back, sent an icy, cold shudder of disgust through Peter, such as he felt towards spiders, cockroaches, and other creeping vermin.
“Away, away, away, or else I’ll kill you!” he cried in fury, mingled with terror.
At last with a desperate effort he shook him off, spurning Alexis on the face with his foot. The Tsarevitch with a hollow groan fell to the ground, like one dead. Peter ran out of the room, as if escaping from some monster.
When he passed the dignitaries who were awaiting him in the hall, they saw in his face that something terrible had happened.
He called to them shortly: “To the Church!” And he went out.
Some followed after him; others, Tolstoi and Shafiroff among them, hurried to the Secret Chamber of Replies.
The Tsarevitch continued to lie with his face to the ground, as lifeless. They began to lift him, trying to bring him back to consciousness. His joints would not straighten out; contracted by convulsions they had become rigid. Yet it was not a swoon. His breathing was rapid, his eyes open.