“Do what pleases you, your Majesty.” He looked askance at the Tsar.
Peter snatched the knout from his hands. All hurried up towards the Tsar to stop him, but too late. He had already raised the knout and struck his son with all his might. The blows, though from an unskilled hand, were yet so terrific, that it seemed they would break the very bones.
The Tsarevitch turned round and looked at his father, as though wanting to say something. Peter remembered the gaze of the Saviour’s face, surrounded by a crown of thorns, as portrayed on the ancient icon, before which he, Peter, had once prayed, oblivious of the Son, direct to the Father, and asked with dread: “What is the meaning of Father and Son?” And again a bottomless chasm yawned at his feet, so deep and fearful, that his hair stood on end.
He overcame this dread, raised heavily the knout once more; but he felt it stick to his fingers; it was slippery with blood; he threw it away in disgust.
All surrounded the Tsarevitch; he was taken off the strappado and laid on the ground.
Peter approached his son.
The Tsarevitch lay with his head thrown back; his lips were parted as with a smile; his face was bright, pure and young like that of a boy of fifteen. He continued to gaze at his father, with a look which indicated he wanted to say something to him.
Peter knelt, bent over his son and embraced his head.
“It is nothing, nothing, dearest,” murmured Alexis,“I am all right. All is well. God’s will be done!”
The father kissed him on the lips; but Alexis had already grown weak and lay heavy in Peter’s arms; his eyes had become dim, his gaze lost its clearness.