He held up his hands. “’Tis madness,” he cried, “sheer madness! The dead lie there to warn you!”
“And she is there!” I retorted, and drawing my pistol from my belt, I primed it.
“Tut, tut, monsieur!” said Maître le Bastien, “you dream! Why rush to death? The Church accounts suicide sin, and what is this you contemplate but suicide? Come, monsieur, come home with me,” and he plucked at my sleeve, in honest consternation.
I thanked him pleasantly. “You are a good friend, Maître le Bastien,” I said, “and I am glad to feel that you will be safe. Cut loose from me, monsieur, however, for I will be henceforth a marked man—the Princess Daria’s husband,” and I smiled bitterly.
He shook his head despondently, knowing me too well to interfere further.
“Michaud,” I said, looking to my sword, “where is your Streltsi? I must get into the Kremlin, instead of out of it.”
But at these words the apprentice turned white as paper.
“I cannot go back there, monsieur,” he protested; “I dare not.”
“Are you a woman?” I asked scornfully, eyeing him in a way that brought the blood to his face, but he stood sullenly silent.
“Bah!” I said; “where are your petticoats?”