“Where has the princess gone?” I asked slowly; “do you even know that?”
“No,” he answered, shaking his head forlornly. “I came here last night and found the house barred and silent, and yet I saw a light under one of the shutters. I knocked and scratched there, and at last the Princess Daria came and spoke to me; she thought you had returned; she had been alone an hour or more, and she had heard cries in the stable-yard.” He stopped and looked at me anxiously.
I nodded. “Go on,” I said briefly.
“She let me in,” he continued more quietly, seeing that I was not angry, “and I gave her the message from her father.”
“Ah! you saw the prince?” I interrupted.
“Yes, I saw him and delivered your message,” he replied meekly.
“How did you escape the rioters in the palace?” I asked sharply. “I thought you were surely trailing them to your death.”
He smiled, his little face puckering. “No,” he rejoined, “I ran down the gallery—I am light of foot. I outran them and leaped out of a window and left them to bay at the air. Then I found Prince Voronin hidden in the Church of Saint Basil the Blessed, and I told him of his daughter, but”—Maluta hesitated—“but not of you, O my master!”
“Your wit is as long as your ears,” I said approvingly; “go on, you little rogue.”
“He bade me tell her to meet him at Troïtsa; he dared not leave his hiding-place till night.”