“Ramodanofsky’s niece!” they screamed, with sudden inspiration; “she was betrothed to that devil Viatscheslav! The fellow has her here!”
That brought them howling under the window.
“Open the door!” they cried to me, “or we will tear you limb from limb when we get in! No more lies for us! We will have them all!”
I shouted to them that they were mistaken; but my voice was drowned in the tumult, and the stones began to rain like hail. I felt a pull at my cloak, and turning, saw Zénaïde. She had followed me, and heard it all.
“It is useless,” she said, in a quiet voice; “kill me now, M. le Vicomte.”
I looked below, and saw them placing the improvised battering-ram against the door, and then I jumped down beside her.
“Not yet, Zénaïde!” I cried, with a break in my voice, for I could not bear to look upon her pale and lovely face. “There may yet be a chance. Take one of my pistols, and let us find a refuge if we can.”
I took her hand in mine and found that it did not even tremble, although as cold as death. Leading her, I found an upper room, and waited there to meet our fate. It was a moment of agony for both, and she clung to my arm like a child.
“M. le Vicomte,” she faltered suddenly, while we waited in that quiet spot, “I blame myself; I should not have led you here. It is awful to die such a death.”
I drew her closer to me and looked down upon her face so near my own.