The rebellion of the Princess

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“There are also dainties in France, and your feast cakes, your pampushki, are but flour and garlic,” I said, but he shook his head dismally.

“At least, I will make you independent of the kitchens,” I said; “money I can give you.”

As I spoke, one of the horses—startled, as I think, by some noise of the trees—plunged, and but for his halter would have run away. I started to my feet and fastened both more securely, but Maluta fell to trembling and crossing himself.

“’Tis the second time,” he whispered; “’tis Koshchei or one of his legion!”

Koshchei, one of the demons of the forest, was the terror of the Russian heart, and believed in, as I think, more devoutly than the Virgin and the saints.

“’Tis a sure sign of danger,” cried Maluta, “and see yonder, O excellency, the storm-cloud rises. Stribog, the god of the winds, is abroad; ’twill be a wild night—we must take the beasts into the hut, for if the tempest comes and they escape us, we cannot walk.”

The wisdom of this and his superior knowledge of the Russian climate made me comply, and it was well, for though we were crowded to the door of the hovel, the beasts were safe, and it was a night of the wildest. The great black storm-cloud rolled up, covering the heavens and the earth with the blackness of the pit, and the wind, rising steadily, swept over those wide plains with furious power. The few trees that stood about us bent and creaked, feeble as reeds, and the rain came down in torrents, and all through the fury of the tempest Maluta shouted a weird song, kneeling sometimes, while the water swirled around his little figure, and again lifting his arms over his head and dancing to and fro, swaying back and forth, and calling for protection on Koshchei and his legion of evil spirits. Once or twice, as the storm broke above us, in all its fury, and the wind came sweeping wild and mighty across the steppes, and the black heavens showed strange copperish streaks, Maluta fell face downward, at the threshold of the hut, and seemed to wrestle with an invisible foe, crying to me that the place was filled with evil spirits and that Koshchei the Deathless rode the wind, until—between the little demon-worshipper and the demon of the tempest—I was fairly beset, and crossed myself to be sure that I was yet a Christian. And through all those long hours the wind wailed and the dwarf chanted, until, at last, morning broke suddenly on the wild scene and little by little the tempest subsided.

But it was full noonday before we could set out, and having to advance cautiously now, to avoid questions, we could not reach the house before nightfall. But we were nearing it and my heart beat high, although the dwarf rode beside me, a drooping figure, exhausted doubtless by his unearthly vigil, and fearful of meeting the evil spirits of the forest, the Leshy and the Baba Yaga.

It was toward the late hours of the afternoon that we became aware that a party—a large one, too—travelled to the westward of us, and in the same direction. To avoid them we turned further east and, though we made good speed, night had already fallen before we saw the lights of a large village, and Maluta told me that it lay between us and the palace of Prince Voronin. Determined to avoid all suspicion, we dismounted at the edge of the hamlet, and the dwarf agreed to stay with the horses while I went forward to reconnoitre, though he did not care for the arrangement, for he distrusted my ability as a scout, and feared to be alone in the wood. However, I had no mind to play a secondary part here and one of waiting, so I left him on duty with the horses, and slipping past the first straggling houses of the settlement sought for the road to the prince’s château, and I was led to find this by the peasants themselves, who were all thronging toward the great house, drawn—as I was to learn—by the prospect of a spectacle. Using all the precaution I could, I advanced along the outskirts of the throng and finally mingled with it unnoticed, as the serfs pressed on behind a procession of flaming torches that was winding up the road that led to the great house before us.

Even in the gloom of early nightfall I could distinguish the outlines of a large and imposing building, looming grandly amidst the level country, and surrounded by the huts of the village, which were little more than a growth of mushrooms by comparison. But, from what I heard about me, and from what I saw, I gathered that the party of travellers, that Maluta and I had avoided, had arrived and were proceeding in state to the castle, where—from the brightly illumined court-yard—I knew they were expected. Pushing my way carefully, but steadily, to the front, that I might be sure of drifting into the court with the crowd, I came, at last, close to the torches and saw the glint of scarlet tunics, and then intuition warned me and I was not surprised to recognise the man who rode—in state—through the great gateway, with the flare of torches flashing on his jewels and the gold brocade of his mantle. Mounted on a splendid horse and riding like a soldier and a prince, with his footmen before him and behind, was my rival, Basil Galitsyn.