“Polotsky must be secured, then,” Feodor said at once; “he is an abominable wretch, and deserves nothing so much as torture.”
Looking at the boyar’s face, I recognized the fact that his nerves were not so delicately strung as to shudder at the most refined cruelty, and fancied that the steward would find little mercy at his hands. Polotsky would be difficult to capture, however, for his experience with us had probably made him wary; nevertheless, we soon fixed upon a plan for securing him. Pierrot and Ramodanofsky’s servant, Michael, were deputed to lie in wait for the wretch and bring him to us; the only danger seeming to be Michael’s ferocious hatred of his enemy. The man had accompanied the boyar to my quarters, and he and Pierrot were at once despatched with instructions to secure Polotsky as soon as possible. Ramodanofsky went to the anteroom to give a last word of warning to his servant, and I found myself alone with the Jewish doctor.
“It appears that dead men rise at their pleasure in Russia,” I remarked dryly.
Von Gaden smiled. “It is a strange history, but I was not wrong in my supposition,” he replied; “Vladimir did nearly murder the boyar, and did compass his ruin.”
“Undoubtedly,” I returned; “but how has he hidden him all these years?”
“It is easy to obliterate a ruined man, M. de Brousson,” replied the boyar himself, for, entering unobserved, he had overheard my question. “My life has been checkered by black misfortunes, and my identity almost destroyed by the villainy of Vladimir.”
“I beg pardon, monsieur,” I said at once, “for the question that would have seemed unwarranted from a stranger if addressed to you; but Dr. von Gaden has told me of your apparent death, therefore your re-appearance naturally overwhelmed me with amazement.”
“I have been as good as dead,” replied Ramodanofsky, an expression of stern sadness coming over his face. “After I was stricken down in my own courtyard, by my brother’s hand, I lay in a trance, and on my recovery, found myself in a convict’s garb and in prison. My efforts to proclaim my identity and obtain justice were scouted as the vagaries of a madman. It was impossible to gain redress; impossible to reach the proper authorities with my complaint. I had not only ceased to be a free man, but it seemed as if I had ceased to be even a human being! I have eaten the bitter bread of humiliation and exile. If I am no longer merciful and just as other men, it is because I have received neither mercy nor justice. Hunted like a wild beast, and treated as one, it seems to me a marvel that I have retained the semblance of a man. There was no chance of escape for years, and when it came at last, so worn out and broken was I, that I would scarcely have embraced my opportunity but for the thought of my child. There was no hope of justice from the late czar or his father; but the Czarevna Sophia is willing to propitiate the older nobles, and I represent a class that has had little friendship for her.”
“Prince Galitsyn knows of your identity, does he not?” I asked, my mind full of the new possibilities.
“Prince Basil is my friend,” replied Ramodanofsky; “his father and I were comrades, and it is to him I owe the friendship of the czarevna.”