“Sophia Alexeievna,” she said in a low voice, “you are giving me to a living death, but you shall save my father—see to it that you save him!”
Sophia flushed deeply; contending emotions—triumph, gratified hatred, jealousy—were strongly mingled on her coarse features. Never was there so great a contrast; Sophia’s short, almost shapeless, figure and her powerful, determined face were thrown into sharp relief by the beautiful young woman at her side. The Princess Daria had never looked more lovely, more high-born and noble-minded than at that supreme moment of trial.
Sophia took a step nearer to the lattice.
“Mikhail Kurakin should be there now, in the chapel,” she said impatiently. “When I see him enter, then you will go down that stair yonder at the end of the gallery, and I watch here, that there may be no mistake—no slip—oh, you shall be wedded tight and fast, by book and taper, Daria Kirilovna—never fear!”
“He will not come,” said the princess, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Our Lady of Kazan will deliver me, Sophia Alexeievna, from the bad man and from you—even on the staircase, he will be stayed.”
The czarevna looked at her, in surprise at first, and then laughed mockingly.
“Who shall deliver thee, O Daria?” she said. “Hark—your lover’s footstep is even now in the painted gallery!”
I stopped to hear no more; I grasped Maluta by the collar and softly and swiftly we passed through the door—the czarevna’s back was happily toward it—and on through the room where the princess had been confined. In the hall beyond I stopped and shook the dwarf violently.
“Where is the painted gallery?” I cried; “quick, fool!”
Intelligence of the keenest flashed into those ferret eyes.