“Have mercy on me!” shrieked the wretch, suddenly writhing in his bonds until he faced me. “Have mercy on me, Frenchman! save me, and I will confess all—all!”
Loathsome as the fellow was, I felt some pity. I have never loved the thought of torture; an equal fight, a swift and just retribution, but never such a scene as this! Beneath the Russian noble’s cold exterior I saw the savage goaded to hatred and revenge by bitter wrong: relentless, inexorable, resistless.
“Save me,” shrieked the wretched steward, “and you shall save her!”
“Do you hear that?” cried Ramodanofsky. “He admits his knowledge of my child’s fate! Confess, you villain, or I will burn you with fire!”
I came into the room and spoke to him in French.
“I pray your forbearance, monsieur,” I said; “the fellow is too miserable a coward to confess under such a pressure. Leave him to me but a moment, and I think I can promise you the whole truth.”
“It is easier to cut his throat if he refuses,” exclaimed the boyar, impatiently.
“Time presses, monsieur,” I said quietly, “and he is willing to confess to me.”
Ramodanofsky stood aside with a gesture of courtesy.
“It is your house, M. le Vicomte,” he said with dignity, and made Michael go with him, so that in a moment I was left alone with the prisoner, the red-hot poker gleaming lividly upon the hearthstone.