“I am helpless,” said Peter, with a dreadful look at the livid face of the wretched girl.
“He will be executed—in the most horrible way,” whispered Hélène. “We were to have been married this autumn.”
“Child,” said the Czar kindly, “I have done what I could. I do not need a woman to urge me to this duty.” He looked away from where she knelt, huddled on the dirty floor at his feet, in her dusty traveling dress, all grace and beauty crushed out of her. “I will break Sweden,” he added.
“What is that to me,” cried Hélène, “if Patkul dies?”
“Would it not be something,” asked Peter, “to have revenge?”
She appeared not to hear him; her distraught mind was concentrated on one thing only that was stronger than her fatigue or her despair—the effort to save Patkul.
“Cannot you, who are an Emperor, do this?” she implored.
Peter turned fiercely to Mentchikoff.
“Take away this woman,” he said, “I cannot endure it.”
The shuddering creature staggered to her feet before the officers could touch her, and flung out her poor, feeble hands with a shriek.