“It is Vladimir Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky,” replied Miloslavsky, with a note of scorn in his voice; “an old villain, and an adherent of the Naryshkins.”
“I have heard unfavorable reports of him,” I said, feeling my way with caution.
“Nothing you have heard could be worse than the truth, I fancy,” replied Ivan, indifferently. “Some day he will be called to his account; meanwhile, he is enjoying his little hour of prosperity.”
“And who is the officer with him?” I inquired, pushing my advantage.
Miloslavsky glanced back and shrugged his shoulders.
“Another rascal, Colonel Pzykof, and he is likely to be called to an early reckoning,” he added, a peculiar smile curving his full lips,—a smile which suggested to me at once the triumph of some secret scheme.
“The funeral procession is forming now,” he continued, quickening his step, “and they will be disturbed by an unusual occurrence.”
“I saw that there was some interest awake,” I said. “What is the new development?”
Miloslavsky smiled again.
“The Czarevna Sophia goes in the procession,” he said quietly.