“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, and hurried her on, without another word, towards the gate nearest us, all the while listening to the yells of rage and triumph behind. They were dragging the hideously mutilated bodies of their victims, Matveief, the Naryshkins, and many more, across the square with the spears still sticking in them, and I could hear the cries: “Here goes the Boyar Artemon Sergheievitch Matveief!” “Here goes a privy-councillor!” Zénaïde heard and understood, for she shuddered; but nothing stayed our course. Every moment was precious, and we moved along as rapidly as we dared. To run would have been a fatal way of attracting attention, for even here there were groups of rioters apparently searching for victims; and as we neared the gate, a howl to the left made us both turn, only to see them strike down a white-haired councillor. If I had been without Zénaïde, the old man would not have fallen without a blow in his defense; but her helplessness tied my hands, although my blood boiled at the sight. The rabble was frenzied with the taste of slaughter, and burning with the thirst for vengeance for many bitter wrongs. Never, for a moment, did I doubt the justice of most of the complaints of the Streltsi. They had suffered, in common with all of the lower classes of Russia, and now that they could strike a blow in revenge, it was very sweet to them. The murder of the aged official was fortunate for us, drawing all attention to that spot, and so permitting us to escape. Once out of the Kremlin, we breathed more freely. At that time the riot was confined within the walls of the fortress, and the streets were comparatively quiet; it was not for some hours that they broke loose, pursuing their enemies into the city, and even searching the houses of the foreigners. The quiet which seemed to prevail without encouraged the hope that we might reach Ramodanofsky’s house and get Mademoiselle Eudoxie away unmolested. We had been walking very fast, and I noticed that Zénaïde looked exhausted, and slackened my pace.
“Not so fast, mademoiselle,” I said; “it is not now so imperative, and I do not believe that Mademoiselle Eudoxie is in peril as yet. We shall be there in good time.”
“I cannot bear to linger a moment, M. le Vicomte,” she replied, in a tone of anxiety; “I have seen too much of horror to risk poor mademoiselle; and besides my uncle—”
She paused, as if unwilling to finish the sentence, and I was almost startled; I had forgotten that she did not know of Vladimir’s death, and I saw that I must prepare her for the coming revelation, for the Boyar Feodor might be in his own house, although I doubted it.
“Your uncle will never trouble you again, mademoiselle,” I remarked quietly.
She started and stared at me with a sudden revulsion of feeling; I knew that she fancied him among the mutilated bodies in the Kremlin.
“Did you see it?” she exclaimed faintly.
“You misunderstand, mademoiselle,” I replied; “he was not murdered yonder. He died—by—by accident in his own house yesterday. I witnessed the end. There was none of the violence you feared.”
She looked at me wonderingly, evidently unable to grasp the change that had taken place so suddenly: her uncle and her detested betrothed both removed so swiftly from her path.
“You witnessed his death, M. de Brousson?” she said slowly; “I do not understand.”