‘What is the matter—have you found a Naryshkin?’ they cried, pushing through the crowd towards Falbofsky, who took no notice but talked on, glaring at Mazeppa.
Then I observed Mazeppa behave in a surprising way. He pointed at Falbofsky: ‘A Naryshkin!’ he shouted. ‘If you seek for Naryshkins, there is one, the vilest fox of the litter!’
‘Which, which?’ cried the Streltsi, struggling up with bloodshot eyes and hands that clutched their naked weapons, ready to strike.
‘The old one!’ cried Mazeppa, pointing. ‘He was on his way to the palace, but got jammed in the crowd.’
In a moment the men fell upon Falbofsky and cut him to pieces. They killed two others standing beside him, lest they should have made a mistake and slain the wrong one. They stuck the three heads upon spear-points and pushed through the mob, screaming that they had sent one or more of the Naryshkin litter to hell.
‘Come,’ said Mazeppa, ‘we will not stay!’ and, sick at heart and shocked, I struggled my way out of the square.
‘You devil, Mazeppa!’ I said, when I had recovered my breath. ‘No murderer is more guilty than you after such a deed!’
‘You fool—it was his death or ours!’ he replied. ‘Could you not discern so much? Let a man but point at another, this day, and speak loudly, and lo! there is found a Naryshkin for the Streltsi to fall upon. In another moment we should have been the victims instead of he.’
‘Thank God,’ said I, ‘that my heart is not for ever full of black vengeance. I had forgotten his offence, and wished him no ill.’
‘As to that,’ said Mazeppa grimly, ‘it is not my way to forget, nor yet to forgive. Moreover, it was I that was put to shame, and not you.’