As our hands met, I felt a warmer regard for the man than ever before. The fact that he was Zénaïde’s father was borne in upon me, and I carried away with me the memory of that strange illumination of the stern face. We left him at my quarters to await my return, Von Gaden walking with me towards Vladimir’s house.
“So, M. le Docteur,” I said, “you knew the Boyar Feodor on that night when we rescued him from Polotsky’s midnight assault.”
Von Gaden smiled. “I recognized him at once,” he replied; “his face has changed, but I should have known him anywhere; those eyes and that mouth cannot be forgotten; moreover, I knew the scar.”
“From the blow dealt by his brother, I suppose,” I said quietly.
“Yes; it is an ugly cut, and it has disfigured a face once handsome, even in its rugged strength. I knew him, but he warned me by a glance to be silent, and since then he has been maturing his own schemes, and has not, it seems to me, been deeply concerned about Zénaïde until this last emergency.”
“Perhaps he has not a deep paternal feeling,” I remarked; “his years of absence and of suffering might easily make a difference.”
“Undoubtedly they have,” Von Gaden replied. “Zénaïde is a stranger to him, and, at his best, Ramodanofsky was a man of iron mold; there is not much room for tenderness in a soul like his. But he is roused now, and resents fiercely his brother’s effort to thwart him by marrying his daughter to one of his bitter foes.”
“Vladimir is aware of his presence here,” I said, recollecting the boyar’s face at the czar’s funeral, when he saw his brother in the crowd.
“Ay, he prompted Polotsky’s attempt to murder Feodor; his is the master hand; all these crimes are his, the other men are but his tools.”
“I could never understand Lykof, as he called himself,” I said thoughtfully; “but tell me why he has identified himself with the Streltsi, who hate the boyars?”