“I will save you,” I murmured in a low tone; “only trust me and be brave.”
I flung her mantle over her head, veiling her face, and opening the other door of the carriage, sprang boldly out, lifting her to the ground. The rioters were still busy dispatching Viatscheslav, who was not quite dead, and they let us take two or three steps unmolested, then, with a howl, surrounded us. Zénaïde shrank towards me, quivering in every limb; I threw my left arm around her, and in the other hand I held my naked sword.
“Here is some of the Naryshkin brood!” was the cry. “Cut them down, there is no room here for traitors!”
“Stand back!” I exclaimed in a loud tone, and the habit of command served me well, for there was a pause. “Give place here for the lady; she is a ward of the Czarevna Sophia. Woe unto you if you harm a Miloslavsky!”
“He lies!” exclaimed one of them, mockingly; “this woman was with Naryshkin. Who is this traitor? One of their minions?”
There was a howl of fury from the outer edge of the crowd, but I kept the foremost back by my undaunted front.
“I am the envoy of the King of France,” I said calmly, “and if a hair of my head is injured, Russia will have to answer for it. Stand aside! I must take this lady to the czarevna.”
A mob is like a wild beast, curbed by the steadiest nerve, and I saw that I might hold these furies at bay just as long as I kept my head. Zénaïde was bravely silent, but I felt her shiver as she leaned against me. The worst aspect of it was that the throng was becoming larger, and at any moment might be beyond my control; one of the ringleaders too was disposed to have my blood.
“How do we know that the fellow is speaking the truth?” he exclaimed. “Who knows that he is the envoy of the King of France?”
“He looks a squire of dames,” a voice cried in the crowd, and there was a shout of derision.