On the red staircase

by Mary Imlay Taylor

Another second, and I could not control them. I ran my eye despairingly along the ring of ferocious faces. Suddenly I saw the head of Michael, Ramodanofsky’s man, craned over the others. I hailed the sight with joy.

“There is one of your own men who knows me,” I exclaimed, pointing at him.

He evidently divined the situation, if he did not recognize Zénaïde, and pushed forward, whispering something to the ringleaders that damped their impetuosity. But, even then, we were in great peril, until a sudden diversion released us.

“There goes Peter Naryshkin!” rose a shriek to the left, and the ring around us dissolved, and they were off, full cry, after the unfortunate, whom they brutally murdered, although he proved to be not a Naryshkin, but the son of a boyar, Feodor Soltykof.

At the moment of the break, I hurried Zénaïde away. The rioters had occupied the Red Staircase and were swarming into the palace, so that it was impossible to gain access there, and it was necessary to hide her at once from the sight of the mob. The only refuge that occurred to me was one of the cathedrals, and with a common impulse, we hastened in the direction of the Church of the Resurrection. On every side the work of death was going on, and the ground was slippery with blood. I turned out of my path that Zénaïde might not see a hideous corpse which I recognized, by the dress alone, as that of the Chancellor Matveief. She displayed unusual courage, walking with a firm step amid scenes of such horror that they sickened me—a man and a soldier. I had hoped that Michael might join us, but he had been pushed away by the furious pursuit of Peter Naryshkin, and I had to depend on my own sword and my own wits to bring her safe through. Pushed hither and thither by the surging crowd, we finally reached the rear of the cathedral. Here it was comparatively quiet, and I paused to look about for a way to enter without going to the front, that we might escape the rioters.

“There is a postern to the left,” Zénaïde said, rousing herself, and speaking in a quiet voice.

She guided me along the wall until we came to a low door, and here she knocked gently. They were probably watching for fugitives, for it was opened almost at once by a white-haired priest, who let us in silently and barred the door behind us. But even as we entered, there was a sound of a fierce tumult from the front of the building which arrested our movements.

“What is it?” cried Zénaïde, her voice breaking a little with terror, for it was like the roar of wild beasts. The priest stood listening, his face pale.

“Alas!” he exclaimed, as we heard the outer doors crash in, “some one must have betrayed him. Athanasius Naryshkin is hidden under the altar. If they find him, nothing can save him.”

He rushed towards the curtained alcove behind the altar, through which he could enter the chancel, and leaving Zénaïde for a moment, I followed him. It was too late to do anything to rescue Naryshkin; not even the priests could save him by appealing to the sanctity of the house of God. It was a horrid scene; the outer doors had been forced, and the church was crowded with a frantic mob. The light in the cathedral was dim, but those terrible blood-stained faces stood out against the gloomy background with awful distinctness, and the blood dripped from their spears upon the floor. On the altar steps stood a figure which I recognized with righteous indignation, and regret that I had not slain him. It was the diminutive apelike form of Homyak, and it was he who had directed the movements of the searching party, his the first yell of triumph as they dragged the czarina’s unfortunate brother from under the altar. The sight of the defenseless man in the hands of these wretches fired my blood, and I sprang forward; but a young priest caught me in his arms and pressed me back towards the alcove.