“Barine,” a stallion of extraordinary beauty and corresponding fire, sprang forward, dragging his two running-mates with him, so that the pace became terrific. Bending over the rigid bar of the leather apron, Tatiana encouraged the horses by an occasional shrill whistle, which, coming through her mask, had a peculiarly alarming sound, and although twice Fadéi had ventured an imploring hand upon her sleeve, she refused to relinquish the ribbons to him. It seemed to her somehow that were she—as she termed it—“not at the wheel,” her impatience to arrive, great as it already was, would be doubled. A night drive through her forests in winter was no novelty to her, and besides she was extremely anxious, for with the natural exaggeration of messengers in general and himself in particular, Platon had made the most of his evil news, and, to hear him, Tatiana might have believed that her nephew and sister-in-law were on the point of being put to the torture in short order. Of course she did not credit all that had been reported to her; but still, knowing Laurence as she knew her now, and also the mood of the Tverna peasantry ever since Basil’s unpopular marriage, she could not but feel far from reassured, and her hurry was well-nigh desperate.
Luckily the storm blowing at the beginning of the night had ceased as suddenly as it had started, and from the hour of her departure from home, a brilliant moon had slid steadily down the slope of the steel-blue Heavens, diffusing a grateful silver effulgence aslant the forest roads. Also there was a pallid aurora pulsating to the north, somewhere behind the tree-screen, mounting and descending in gold-shot primrose billows that were reflected from aloft, and shed an intermittent glamour upon the sleeping world.
“What folly is that woman not capable of!” reflected Tatiana. “Platon spoke of her wanting to run away with Garrassime and Piotr! That really would be the climax, and in such a case the people might be hard to deal with.”
On and on flew the sleigh, swift as a swallow skimming over water, and pretty nearly as silent; for Tatiana was driving without bells, and the whispered “zzzzipp” of the smooth runners was scarcely audible at such a speed.
Hours seemed to pass like this, however. With unerring knowledge Tatiana threaded path after path, never slackening to consult the large numerals painted on white boards that indicate the way. She knew it by heart. At last the trees began to thin. Long since she had passed from her own land into her brother’s, and verst had succeeded verst without a break. If it was necessary to kill the horses, she would unhesitatingly do so, dearly as she loved them, for her one idea was Piotr, Basil’s beloved boy, and she must be there before some rash move on Laurence’s part could arouse the mujiks and bring about much trouble.
The red awakening of a new day had but just flamed up in the east when she glimpsed from afar the first isba of the village; here and there a patch of brilliant color caught her keen gaze, and she remembered that this was Sunday, when, winter or summer, the folk don their finest costumes to go to early church. And then of a sudden she saw a crowd of people surrounding something she could not quite distinguish. There were arms raised, thrashing the icy air, and as she drew nearer, the sound of angry voices mounting to a dull roar that penetrated even the heavy furs of her head-covering. Leaping to her feet, Tatiana lashed her horses savagely, while Fadéi, grasping her knees, steadied her in an agony of fear lest she should be dragged over the apron-bar and thrown headlong beneath the flying hoofs of the animals, who, quite unaccustomed to such severe treatment, were now running away for fair. Cries and imprecations greeted the reckless dash through the crowd, but little did Tatiana heed whom she upset, for she had caught sight of another sleigh pitching and tossing in the most amazing fashion right ahead of hers in the middle of the road, its horses struggling with a cluster of vociferating men hanging to their heads, its driver prone on his face in the snow, blood trickling from his forehead, and huddled amid fur robes and rugs two women clinging to each other.
“Burn the coward! Burn the coward! Drag her out! She’s a bad woman, an evil witch!” yelled the mob, milling round the sleigh. “She’s running away from the Prince! She’s deserting Prince Piotr! The villain! Enough of her! Into the oven with her!” clamored the women in their red petticoats and mitre-like coiffures broidered with gold and silver and little pearls.
Ghastly white, her bashlik fallen from head and face, Laurence, absolutely maddened with terror, clung to Célèste, expecting the end at every second. The little maid held her tight, rocking in unison with every plunge of the horses, every pitching of the sleigh, but still game.
Tatiana pulled up with a violent jerk—reinforced by Fadéi, who had seized the loops of the reins from behind—and, tearing the fur mask from her face, she jumped to the hard, frozen ground.
“Back!” she cried, in a voice that could be heard to the limits of the crowd. “Back! In the name of the Czar! Do you all want to go to Siberia?”