I went at the top of my speed to the Voronin palace, pausing for no man, scarcely conscious of the passers in the streets, and once in the court-yard I knocked boldly at the door, where I had been so ridiculed on the occasion of my former visit. But I met no ridicule now; scarcely had I knocked before the door flew open, and old Piotr, grave and stern, stood on the threshold eyeing me in a forbidding fashion. But I did not heed it; instead, knowing that he could be trusted, I told him of the gravity of my errand and that I must see the Princess Daria without delay. At the mention of the czarevna and the visit of the two young girls to the workshop, his face clouded yet more deeply, and I thought that he was strongly agitated, though he answered me soberly enough.
“Sir,” he said gravely, “the princess is not at home; she is in the Kremlin.”
At this I started, deeply alarmed, and I saw my anxiety mirrored on his face.
“We have not a moment to lose,” I said, almost fiercely, “to the Kremlin, man, with me to find her.”
He shook his head, pointing inwards. “I dare not,” he replied, very low; “the prince is here.”
“But his daughter’s safety, man!” I cried impatiently, “let me in to tell him all.”
Old Piotr looked at me, much as he would have looked at a madman.
“Never tell him,” he said; “never betray her excellency—if you do!” he lowered his brows, he curled his lips back from his strong white teeth, like a wolf; “if you betray Daria Kirilovna, I—I, Piotr, will surely kill you, so help me Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk,” and he lifted both hands over his head, swearing by the saint before whom all Russians pledge their fidelity.
The strong old man, his grey head lifted, his hands also—with the palms up—was a striking figure.
“I will never betray her,” I said heartily, and held out my hand.