Suddenly, at the very edge of the sky, the sun peered through a narrow cleft from under the clouds; it seemed as if blood was gushing from a wound. The iron clouds and waves became flushed as with blood. Wonderful and terrible was the aspect of this sea of blood.
“Blood! Blood!” thought Peter, and to his mind came his son’s prophecy.
“You are the first to stain the block with the blood of a son, the blood of Russia’s Tsars; this blood shall descend upon successive generations of thy lineage unto the last Tsar; all will perish in blood. God will visit your sin upon Russia!”
“Not this, O Lord!” again, as on that night before the ancient icon, portraying a dark face surrounded by a crown of thorns, Peter was praying direct to the Father who sacrificed His Son. “Let it not be so! Let his blood come upon me, me alone! Punish me, O God! Spare Russia!”
“There will be a storm,” repeated the old captain; thinking the Tsar had not heard him. “I advised your Majesty to return——”
“Never fear,” answered Peter with a smile. “Our new ship is strong; she will weather this gale. God is with us.”
And with a firm hand the helmsman steered his vessel across the blood-red waves towards the unknown.
The sun had set; it grew dark, the storm began to howl.