“My God! it’s Lieutenant Voronetz!” said a lady sitting next to Pauline.
“And who’s Lieutenant Voronetz?” asked her companion.
“The officer whose duty it is to guard Paul’s bedroom at night.”
Lieutenant Voronetz it was, and a more ghastly figure was never seen.
Moved by some overpowering impulse he had evidently escaped from the bed in which he had been put by the kindly, or perfunctory, care of the physician. He wore no clothing except swathings and bandages, which, criss-crossed all over trunk and limbs, suggested the idea that he had been hacked and slashed by sharp weapons from head to foot. The exertion of moving had caused his wounds to open afresh; his linen swathings had lost all their whiteness—from neck to ankle he was one red hue!
There was death in his face, death within a very short time; why then, instead of remaining peacefully on his bed, had he chosen to come forth in this startling fashion?
Voronetz, casting a wild glance around, had no sooner caught sight of the group upon the balcony than he raised his right arm and fiercely shook it at Alexander. With a thrill of horror Wilfrid perceived that the arm thus raised was without a hand—it had been severed at the wrist!
Those who at that moment happened to be looking at the Czar whispered afterwards that he trembled and turned pale. The benediction that the Archimandrite was about to pronounce died upon his lips.
Turning from the balcony the grim red figure ran, or, to put it more correctly, reeled forward in the direction of the Paulovski Guards. Trotting quietly in his rear, as if to keep an eye upon him, came Benningsen upon his black horse Pluto.
“Men of the Paulovski Guards,” gasped Voronetz in a hollow voice, “do not ... shout for ... Alexander! Listen! I have a tale ... to ... tell....”