“Then we—you must go to her,” I said firmly. “I will get horses from the stable and ride with you to-night. I believe we can pass the gates, and once out of the city, all will be well. When you are safe at Troïtsa, your father can more easily save himself; here, you only enhance his danger.”
I think she realised this, for she neither assented nor dissented, but seemed to be collecting all her forces.
“I cannot leave him here—to—to die!” she exclaimed, in a broken voice.
“Can you save him?” I asked grimly.
My only answer was a low sob.
“If you stay here, the czarevna will use you to threaten him,” I continued; “and if you are out of the way, she has no real grievance against Prince Voronin.”
The force of this argument went home to her, and she sat a while in silence, looking at the ground, so pale and still that she might have been dead, for any sign of life about her. Far off—but sometimes nearer—I began to hear cries and the roll of drums. I grew impatient.
“Will you go, madame?” I asked, “or will you fall into the hands of the mob? I have saved you once—but I am not omnipotent, and your stay here may ruin your father.”
Her lips quivered, but she looked up and searched my face with her dark eyes.
“I will go—to Troïtsa,” she said.