By Neva's waters

by John R. Carling

Heavy with thought the Empress took little heed of external things, but was roused from her reverie by a sudden whisper from Wilfrid.

“The Sumaroff Palace.”

With some show of interest she turned her eyes towards the broad extent of gardens stretching backwards from the river and gazed at the long marble terrace from which, according to what had been told her, she must have been flung on that dreadful night exactly four weeks ago. For the hundredth time she thought how strange it was that her mind should preserve no memory of that event.

With his eye still upon the terrace Wilfrid observed a tall figure standing at the head of a short flight of steps leading down to the water. He had an impression that it was none other than Prince Sumaroff, a personal friend, and a very great one, too, of the Czar. He had just taken leave of a gentleman, wrapped in a long cloak, who had entered a small boat that was now being vigorously pulled by two men, not in a transverse, but in an oblique line, that would bring them within a few minutes across the bows of The Pauline.

As the gondola drew near, the two rowers in the other boat, without any apparent reason, suddenly changed their course. With a warning yell Ouvaroff swung the rudder round as far as it would go. All too late! A snapping of oars and a grinding crash of woodwork, cries of men and a woman’s scream—and the next moment both boats turned completely over, their occupants being precipitated into the Neva, not, however, before Ouvaroff had recognised the cloaked figure in the other boat.

It was Count Baranoff.

Wilfrid, seated in the bow of The Pauline talking with Marie, had not noticed the proximity of the other boat till roused by Ouvaroff’s shout. Turning his head and seeing the danger, he made a sudden clutch at Marie, but at that very moment came the shock of collision; her form eluded his fingers, and he went down into the water without her.

Being an excellent swimmer he rose at once to the surface and looked about for her. The two boats, keel uppermost, were a few yards away, moving off upon the fast-flowing current. Two of the Finlanders were clinging to The Pauline; the two others were struggling desperately in the water; so, too, was one of the rowers in Baranoff’s boat. The five, unable apparently to swim, were uttering piteous cries.

These five were all that Wilfrid could see. There should be four more. Then, near by, arose the dripping head of Prince Ouvaroff. Like Wilfrid, a swimmer, it was no trouble for him to keep afloat.