On guard before the bedroom door stood Lieutenant Voronetz. Guessing their errand, he shouted “Treason!” and, faithful to his trust, he drew his sabre, though well knowing that resistance meant death.
“We have no quarrel with you,” said Benningsen. “Stand aside from that door! You will not? Well, then, if you prefer to die——”
A dozen blades were stabbing and slashing at Voronetz; his hand was hewn off; mutilated and moaning he fell.
The door was fastened on the inside; a violent kick burst it open, and in rushed the conspirators.
The Czar was not to be seen.
“He cannot have fled far,” said Benningsen. “His bed is still warm. Ah! Yon screen!”
From behind the screen there stepped a little figure clad only in a dressing-gown.
The conspirators, about to rush forward, checked themselves. There was in the figure a certain air of dignity that awed them in spite of their resolve. However insignificant in person, he was nevertheless the Czar, descendant of a long line of Czars, only son of the great Catharine, and nearest in blood to the mighty Peter himself. His picture hung in a million homes; tyrant though he were, ten million persons would weep if hurt befell the Little Father; ten million voices would demand vengeance upon the slayers!
Appalled at the magnitude of their intended deed some of the conspirators shrank back, and with averted faces stole towards the door.
But the master-spirit of the scene, Benningsen, intercepted them with drawn sabre.