"That I may defend myself."
"'Tis needless," said Tschekin, with a cold smile; "we shall take every care of you."
"Oh, Carl Ivanovitch Balgonie, my friend, my good friend! you I can trust—you I can command—come hither, and remain by my side," said the Prince, in an imploring accent, as a solemn foreboding came upon him when he saw the sabres stealthily drawn from their scabbards on every side, and even the terrible Nicholas Paulovitch drawing near, dagger in hand, with his long lock of hair, his scowling front, and a cruel expression, the very lust of blood, in his deep-set stony eyes. "Carl, Carl," cried Ivan; "your hand!"
"Captain Balgonie—he here!" roared Bernikoff, with one of his terrible maledictions.
"Oh Excellency!" implored Balgonie, scarcely knowing what he should ask or urge.
"Begone, sir, to the barrier gate, and keep the guard there to their duty—begone, sir, I command you, on your allegiance to the Empress!"
To refuse or linger were alike impossible, though a wild cry of entreaty escaped the lips of the young Prince, who sprang forward, but was thrust roughly back towards his couch by many hands and many levelled weapons.
The sword of Damocles, which had hung over his unhappy head so long, was about to descend at last!
Balgonie, his heart swollen almost to bursting with shame, rage, and grief, rushed down the stair of the keep; but at the foot, and just as he passed where the old Chaplain Chrysostom was saying devoutly on his knees the prayers for the dying, he heard a shrill and protracted cry of agony ring through the vaulted tower—a cry that made his blood run cold!
Humanity, generosity, and all his own good impulses would have drawn him back to the side, and, if possible, to the aid, of Ivan; but the force of discipline, and a knowledge of his own utter powerlessness, made him pause: for he was but one man—a young officer—a foreigner, too, opposed to a whole garrison of ferocious and unscrupulous soldiers.