I was, I knew, far in rear of the advanced line of all the Russian posts, and was certain to fall, alive or dead, into their hands at some time or other; so drawing Lord Raglan's despatch to Marshal Canrobert from my breast-pocket--a piece of wet pulpy paper--I destroyed and cast it away; an unwise proceeding, perhaps, as it was the only credential I possessed to prove that I was not a--spy, but simply an officer on duty, who had lost his way. The cliffs of marble that bordered the shore were silent and lonely. The tall mountains of the Yaila range, their sides bristling with sombre pines and rent by old volcanic throes into deep chasms and rugged ravines of rock, rose on my left; a little Tartar village, the feeble lights of which I could discern, nestled at their base about a mile distant. Should I endeavour to reach it, and risk or lose all at once? By this time I had struck upon a path which soon led to a roadway between vineyard walls, and ere long these were replaced by what appeared to be the trees of a park, between the branches of which the moon and the stars shone on the slanting snow-flakes and turned them to diamonds and prisms. In summer, the cypress and olive, the pomegranate and laurel trees, the quince and the Byzantine poplar, made all that road lovely. Then it was dreary enough, especially to me. Anon I came to a stately gate of elaborate cast-iron work, between two ornate pillars of the native red-and-white marble, surmounted each by some heraldic design. It stood invitingly open; the track of recent carriage-wheels lay there; and beyond the now white sheet of snow that covered a spacious park, there towered a handsome mansion, in that quaint and almost barbaric style of architecture peculiar to the châteaux of the Crimea, half Russian, half Turkish, with four domes, shaped like inverted onions, but of clearly-burnished copper, surmounting four slender tourelles, and under the broad cornices of which the pigeons--the holy birds of Muscovy--were clustered in cooing rows. In front was a pretty porch, under the open arches of which hung a large coloured lamp; while many lights, all suggestive of heat and comfort, were gleaming through the rich hangings of the windows on the snowy waste without. It was evidently the country residence of some wealthy Russian landholder, and there I felt more certain and safe in seeking shelter than among the wood-cutting boors or Tartar herdsmen of the village; yet my heart had more misgivings than hope as I approached it.
If the Russians, even in time of peace, are ever suspicious of strangers, how was I likely to be received there in time of war? Should I fall among good Samaritans, kindly perhaps; if otherwise, I might be accused of spying in an enemy's country, be hanged, shot, knouted perhaps, and sent to Siberia, for my horrible surmises were endless. But to remain where I was would be to die; so I boldly approached, not the door, but a lower window that overlooked a balustraded terrace on which a flood of light from within was falling. Between hangings of pale blue satin laced with silver, and through the double sashes of the windows, which were ornamented with false flowers in the old Russian fashion, I perceived a handsome and lofty apartment, the furniture of which was singularly elaborate and florid. It seemed, with its drapery, sofas, fauteuils, statuettes under glass shades, and its pretty watercolours hung on the wall, to be a tiny drawing-room or ladies' boudoir; but on one side, built into the partition and forming a part thereof, were the stone ribs of a peitchka or Russian stove, faced with brilliantly-coloured porcelain. Through 'these ribs the light of a cheerful fire shone across the softly carpeted floor; and above the stove was an eikon, or Byzantine Madonna, with a bright metal halo like a gilt horseshoe round the head; a little silver lamp hung before it. From this a tiny jet of flame shot upward, while a golden tassel dangled below.
In the foreground, between the window and the glowing wall-stove at a table littered with books and needlework, were seated two ladies in easy-chairs, their feet resting on tabourettes, as they cosily read by the softened light of a great shaded lamp. One seemed young; the other somewhat portly and advanced in years; and she wore a red sarafan--the ancient Russian dress--a readoption about that time, when our invasion of the Crimea acted as a powerful and angry stimulant to the national enthusiasm of the whole empire; and at that precise moment, I should have preferred to find this noble matron--for such I had no doubt she was--in some dress nearer the Parisian mode. However, in my then predicament I felt more disposed to trust to the protection of women than of men, and so knocked gently, and then more loudly, on the window. Both ladies started, laid down their books, and rose. The double sashes and the false flowers placed between them rendered my figure indistinct, if not invisible. They conferred for a moment, and then, most fortunately for me, instead of summoning assistance by furiously ringing the bell, or indulging in outcries, as some ladies might have done in a land of well-ordered police, the younger drew out a drawer, in which probably pistols lay; while the elder boldly unclasped the sashes, threw them open, and then both surveyed me with perplexity and with something of pity, too, as I was bareheaded, unarmed, deadly pale, and covered with snow that in some places was streaked with blood. The elderly lady, a keen-looking woman, evidently with a dash of the nomadic Tartar in her blood, asked me rather imperiously some questions in Russian--that language which Golovine so rightly says "is altogether inaccessible to foreigners;" but the other added, in softer French,
"Who are you, and from whence do you come?"
I replied that I was a British officer from the army before Sebastopol, wounded and unhorsed in a recent skirmish with Cossacks; that I had lost my way, and was literally perishing of cold, hunger, and loss of blood.
"How come you to be here, as you have no troops in this quarter?" asked the young lady, to my surprise and pleasure, in English, which she spoke fluently, but with a pretty foreign accent.
"I lost my way, I have said, and being pursued have ridden far in a wrong direction."
"Far, indeed, from Sebastopol at least; do you know where you are, sir?"
"No."
"This is Prince Woronzow's castle of Yalta."