The rebellion of the Princess

by Mary Imlay Taylor

I snatched the torches and crushed their fire out on the ground, and then I lifted her over the body and we stood on the steps. Not twenty yards away other lights streamed, where the rioters were drinking at the cask and singing wildly, multiplied now from ten to thirty; the red glare on their cruel faces and blood-stained arms showed them sharply outlined against the night. Happily we were in the shadow, and I took Daria’s hand and led her swiftly up the steps and away, along the walls of the palace, into the darkness beyond. I had to tread cautiously, for it was hard to see and, at any moment, we might stumble on another party. We had, perhaps, fifteen or eighteen yards to go before we could turn a corner and, at any moment, the torchlight might be thrown upon us. Nothing could have been wilder than the scene; that bloody, fiery group shown in the night, as if the gate of the infernal regions gaped to show us the imps at carnival, and about them the pitch of the pit. Once the princess slipped and clung to my arm with a low exclamation, for she knew what had made the ground slippery, and she saw a dark, still thing close at her feet. But I hurried her on and, at last, we turned the corner, and were in a still place alone. But there was even then no time for thankfulness; I urged her on, and we fled swiftly out of sight of the palace, past the cathedrals; on and on—and the soft night air, fanning our faces, revived us both. Twice or thrice we had to turn aside to avoid a party of Streltsi bearing torches, and once more we nearly fell across a corpse, but at last we left the Red Place—the place of blood—behind us, and were walking rapidly toward my quarters. It was then that she stopped and drew a long breath of relief, and I stopped too, fearing her strength had failed her at last, or her resolution, but it was neither the one nor the other. She was still thinking of her father.

“Let me go home,” she said, in a low voice; “yonder is the way—you pass it, sir, and I must find my father!”

“I pass it, yes, madame,” I said gravely and, perhaps, sternly; “I pass it because it would be murder to take you there. Think you they have not gone before us?”

“The Streltsi!” She gasped a little, and seemed irresolute; but then all a woman’s obstinacy came upon her and, too, in spite of her words, I felt she did not trust me.

“I must go there!” she cried desperately.

I had not the heart to forbid her; indeed, I was minded to let her see that I knew best, and profit by the lesson. Without another word, therefore, I turned and led her toward the Voronin palace. As I have said, the street that led to it ran straight toward the Iberian Chapel, and showed the house plainly from a distance, and no sooner did we enter this street than she stopped with a low cry of dismay. The palace of Prince Voronin stood there, revealed in the night by the blaze of fifty torches and lighted, too, within, from roof to cellar, and even at this distance we heard the cry of the spoiler. She stood rooted to the ground, staring at it in such apparent anguish that a horrid thought occurred to me.

“Where is the child—your cousin—Vassalissa?” I exclaimed involuntarily.

She crossed herself devoutly. “Safe, thanks be to the Virgin! she went early this morning to Troïtsa, with her mother’s sister on a pilgrimage—for me.”

“Come, then,” I said briefly. “Will you trust me now, Mme. la Princesse?”

I think she was ashamed of her wilfulness, for she followed me without a word, and we turned aside and, by lanes and byways, reached Le Bastien’s house. It was, as I expected, dark and deserted, and therefore a safer refuge, for the time, and I fumbled in my pocket, got a key, and, opening the door, let her into the silent place. It took but a moment to secure the entrance behind us; a fir-splint burnt in the cresset, and from it I lighted a taper, and then I led her into one of the lower rooms, saw that the shutters were secure, lighted more tapers, and drawing a chair forward, begged her to be seated. She obeyed me silently, and as she sat there I saw the pale and haggard look on her face. Going quickly to my own room, I cast off Kurakin’s petticoats, and arraying myself in my own clothes, went to the kitchen and procured some vodka and a little bread and, returning, bade her eat and drink in a voice of command; for I saw that she must do both or fail altogether; yet, at first, she put both the glass and the food away, crying out that she could not eat.