“You little rogue!” I said passionately; “how long ago was she here?”
But he did not answer me; instead, he plucked at my coat and pointed to the opposite door—the door through which we had entered the gallery—and there, to my amazement, I saw the Czarevna Sophia and the Princess Daria entering together. Whether they saw us or not, I knew not; if they did, neither of them heeded us, and the dwarf and I, standing back in the recess of the doorway, were witnesses of the strange scene that followed. As they advanced I saw the awful pallor of Daria’s face, but she was wonderfully composed, seeming to control herself by a supreme effort of will, while the czarevna, equally cool in manner, had an inscrutable expression on her countenance. She paused midway in the gallery, at one of the windows, and pointed downward. The mob—nearly silent for a while—had begun to cry out again, and I could see some horror, enacted below, reflected in the eyes of the girl who looked, following the direction of that eager finger.
“I have brought you here to see the fruitlessness of resistance, you little fool,” said Sophia, in a tone that had the cruelty of triumphant power in it; “your father is old, and not a strong man; death will therefore be more easy—but death upon those spears! And death he would have, if he opposed me. His rank avails not. See, yonder goes the head of Artemon Matveief, the czarina’s uncle—she could not save him!”
The Princess Daria closed her eyes with a shudder, and I saw Sophia’s cruel, furtive smile. What devil possessed the woman? I felt in my bosom for the pistol, the spot was lonely! At the moment, came up the yell from below—like a voice from the infernal regions.
“Slay, slay the traitors! Give us Ivan Naryshkin and Von Gaden—the Jew poisoner—and Prince Voronin! Death to these wretches!”
The princess drew back, pale and shivering, but still she did not plead for mercy; she only listened to the other woman.
“They are demanding your father,” Sophia said; “the czarina cannot save him, nor can Galitsyn—nor Galitsyn—do you hear, girl, not even the prince? And they will tear his body, as the wolves tear the one who is slain first—they would do it now—but for me!”
The Princess Daria cast a scornful look at her, her own face as white as ashes, but her eyes sparkling.
“You can save him, Sophia Alexeievna!” she said; “and why should he suffer because Prince Galitsyn loves me? Because you found my miniature in your locket around his neck? I did not give it to him,” she continued scornfully, “and if I had—is that cause enough for a great princess—the daughter of the czars—to murder an old man? Why do you not murder me?”
Sophia pointed out of the window. “I need not,” she replied, and laughed.