The red blood leaped up to Daria’s forehead, and then she turned white again, for the cry came up.
“Give us more Naryshkins! Where is Voronin?”
Sophia walked across the gallery and looked through the lattice into the chapel. From where I stood I also could see the dim interior, lighted only by the tapers which burned before the golden iconostase, and there now was the figure of a priest, on his knees; surely it was a time to pray.
“See, here is the priest, Daria Kirilovna,” said Sophia, “and Kurakin waits below. You will go there now, and before my eyes, wed the Boyar Kurakin. You cannot escape me—there is no escape!”
I felt again for my pistol, and this time drew it out.
The princess did not, at first, reply; she stood quite still, looking into the chapel.
“I can die!” she said, at last, in a low voice, “and I would gladly die—rather than wed that man! I can die.”
“Out there?” asked Sophia scornfully, pointing toward the court-yard where the carnival of hell went on.
The Princess Daria did not answer, her face set itself rigidly.
“Out there?” said Sophia again. “I do not think they would kill you—not at once!”