“But, father,” put in Sonya quickly, “at such a time as this cannot we forget these differences——”
“Forget! How forget, when to-morrow all St. Petersburg, all Russia, will know that the children of General Valenko are traitors? Can I forget this disgrace upon the name that for a thousand years has been one of Russia’s proudest?”
“That disgrace,” returned Borodin steadily, “may later prove the Valenkos’ greatest honour.”
His father did not heed him. “To-morrow our name will be in the mire,” he went on with mounting wrath. “To-morrow I shall be sneered at all over the land. The revolution-queller, who found the revolution sprang from his own family! How Russia will laugh!”
His voice grew even more wroth, and his face darkened with accusation. “You have turned against your father—you have turned against your class—you have turned against your Czar! But one disgrace I shall not suffer. They shall never say of me that I shrank from duty because the criminals were my own children. You are guilty! You must suffer the penalty of your guilt!”
He stood before them the very figure on an heroic scale of a wrathful, implacable, almighty judge. There was a moment of deep silence. Through the heavy masonry came the tones of the Cathedral clock, tolling the hour of six.
“We knew the risk, and we accepted it,” said Borodin. “So we do not complain at your decision.”
“Yes, you are doing your duty as you see it,” said Sonya. “But even if we cannot agree, father, can we not admit that we all have tried to do what we have thought best for our own country, and part without blame or bitterness?”
She took Borodin’s arm and drew him forward, front to front with his infuriate sire and judge. “Since we are parting forever, won’t you and Vladimir part as friends, father?”
The general gazed at his son—at his daughter. They were pale, but their eyes were clear, their mien tranquilly intrepid. Their calm acceptance of their fate sobered his wrath, but stern judgment still sat upon his brow.