“Mademoiselle,” I replied gently, “you know what the Boyar Vladimir was; can you not imagine that he would easily wrong even his own brother?”
Her face was very pale. “Yes,” she returned slowly; “but I never dreamed that he had wronged my father. Did—did he have anything to do with his death?”
I took both her hands in mine.
“Zénaïde Feodorovna,” I said tenderly, “your father is not dead; he lives, and is in Moscow.”
I had feared that she might faint, but I had forgotten that to her “father” was but a name. She was deeply moved, but she commanded herself, and in a few moments was walking on beside me.
“Where is he now?” she asked after a while, her voice shaken with a new and deep emotion.
“He was at his own home, mademoiselle,” I replied; “but now I cannot tell, except that he must be safe, for he is of the Miloslavsky party, and has great influence, I believe, with the Streltsi.”
Zénaïde did not reply; I think that it flashed upon her that if the brothers were cast in similar mold, her father might be engaged in the bloody work at the Kremlin,—a thought that had occurred to me since I had seen Michael in the mob. We walked on in silence, approaching the house at last without having met one of the rioters. To my surprise, the gates were open, and we entered the empty court. It occurred to us both that this silence and desertion was strange; and Zénaïde, running on ahead of me, tried the great doors, and finding them fastened, we passed around to the postern in the wing.
CHAPTER XXVI.
LOVE AND FIRE.
The postern was also fastened, and Zénaïde knocked repeatedly without effect.