He softly coughed twice. In a few seconds through the gateway filed a dozen shadowy figures. Despite the darkness Drexel could see they wore the uniform of gendarmes.
“Captain Laroque,” Sabatoff whispered to them.
They touched their caps.
“They know what to do,” Sabatoff whispered to Drexel. “When all is over, abandon the sleigh; there’s no clue connecting it with me. And all luck with you!”
They clasped hands, and Sabatoff stepped from the sleigh and disappeared into a cross street. Drexel started the horse into a walk and the men fell into double file behind him. As they passed a street lamp Drexel looked back to take the measure of his escort. Of the front pair one nodded at him, and the other gave him a wink and a grin.
“Nicolai—Ivan!” he breathed.
Nicolai responded with a formal salute. Ivan’s pock-marked face grinned again and his little eyes glinted with excitement. “Great business!” he whispered, nodding his head.
As they moved on Drexel’s suspense tightened. One chance in a hundred, Sabatoff had said, and on so desperate a hazard hung the life of Sonya. Yes, and Borodin’s life, and his own, and if not the lives at least the freedom of Razoff, The White One, and the dozen of his escort. And the slightest mistake, the slightest misfortune, would instantly be the ruin of all!
His foremost fear was that he might be intercepted before he reached the prison. The city was filled with soldiers, the gendarmerie were skulking everywhere; what more natural than that some squad should fall in with them, penetrate their deception and place them under arrest? Drexel expected some late-prowling company to rush out upon them as they passed every dark cross street—as they passed the huge pile of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, whose cavernous shadows seemed the lurking place of surprises—as they passed the Winter Palace of the Czar—as they traversed the long bridge that arched the Neva’s ice. But save for a few sleighs and a sleepy policeman or two, the streets were void and silent—as silent as though frozen by the bitter cold; and without having been once addressed they drew nigh the mighty Fortress.
Before the dark gateway—how many lofty souls had entered there never to come out!—he paused, almost choking with the nearness of the climax. Even the night seemed to hold its breath. Fifteen more minutes would decide it all. Fifteen more minutes and Sonya would be free—or he, too, would be a prisoner in the bowels of the Fortress.