“Do you not think,” said the prince, with a steel-like edge to his voice, “that you are speaking a little rashly, considering you are in Russia?”
The terrorist was leaning insouciantly back in his chair, but his eyes were flaming. “An American, sir,” said he, “is not afraid to speak the truth, no matter in what tyrant’s land he finds himself.”
The prince’s face darkened. He again wet his lips, his long interlocked hands tightened and his eyes gleamed back into the terrorist’s.
“My advice to you, sir,” and there was an ominous threat in his voice, “and to all other foreign scribblers, is to keep a quieter tongue in your head!”
“You think you can cow me?” said Freeman, a contemptuous, defiant sneer upon his lips. “You can kill me—yes. But let me tell you, all you blood-sucking officials, all you nation-crushing aristocrats, you, and your snivelling, cowardly, blood-drenched little Czar——”
Berloff sprang to his feet. “What, you insult the Czar!” and like the dart of a serpent his hand flashed across the table and struck Freeman full in the mouth.
Freeman shot up like a released spring, his dark face livid, and made to hurl himself upon the prince. Drexel seized an arm. Its tense muscles were like steel wire, and it flung him aside with one violent sweep, and again the terrorist made for the prince. For an instant Drexel feared for Berloff’s life; but officers from an adjoining table threw themselves upon the terrorist, and a moment later he was securely held by gendarmes. He struggled and hurled fierce defiance at the prince, who stood erect and impassive, with just the faintest tinge in his white cheeks.
“You’ll remember this!” cried the terrorist, darkly.
Berloff did not answer—gazed at him with cold contempt as he was bundled out. Perhaps he did remember—perhaps not. But afterward Drexel remembered—and remembered well.
This sudden flare-up of passion drew upon them the curious stare of the dozens of people in the cafe, and the terrorist had not been five minutes gone before the other three withdrew, the prince going to the apartment he maintained for his occasional St. Petersburg visits, and Drexel and his uncle mounting to their rooms above. His uncle asked about Freeman, and Drexel told what was common knowledge, holding back the sinister information he had gained in Three Saints’ Court; for he had decided to say nothing, for the present at least, of his adventure with the young woman and the experiences into which it had led him.