He did not finish the sentence, for the gendarme shook him roughly, commanding him to stop, or speak Russian. As he could not understand a word of English, he evidently suspected we might be hatching some plot, and sternly demanded to know what we were saying. I told him all except that I was to write to No. — Nevsky. It was well to withhold this, I thought, and there was a gleam of intense satisfaction in the man’s eyes, which thanked me more than words could have done.
“God bless you!” he said, in much the same tone of old Ursula when she bade me good-by, and then he was started for the gloomy fortress.
In my excitement I stepped in front of him and, stopping him for an instant, grasped his hand and said:
“Good-by and God pity you! I shall pray for you every day.”
It was a bold thing to do in the teeth of Paul Strigoff, who scowled at me threateningly and asked again what I had been saying, and if I knew I was sympathizing with one of the most notorious nihilists alive.
“He is more dangerous than your thief, Carl Zimosky,” he added.
The prisoner made no sign that he heard or cared, until Carl was mentioned; then he looked up quickly, with a flash of resentment, it seemed to me, at being classed with a thief. It was then that I noticed more particularly his finely-cut features and dark, expressive eyes, which, in spite of his courage, had in them such a look of terror and despair as I shall never forget.
I made no reply to the gendarme and walked away, not knowing but I might be arrested as a suspect and sympathizer with anarchists.
Arrived at our hotel I wrote my promised letter, with no clew to guide me except the number, “Ivan,” “Sophie” and “her.” The “her” was probably his wife, and I addressed her as madame and told her the particulars of the arrest and that the man had evidently wished to send some word to “Ivan” and “Sophie.” I would not trust my note to the mail, but sent it by a private messenger from the hotel to the number on the Nevsky, which I found was in a more fashionable quarter than M. Seguin’s house.
The excitement of the last few days, added to the heat, which was intense, proved too much for me, and instead of leaving St. Petersburg the next day, I was in bed with what would have proved a case of nervous prostration if I had not fought it with all my will power. At first I rebelled against the detention, for I was anxious to leave St. Petersburg behind me; but as the days went by I was glad of the illness which brought me so many unknown friends. These were not tourists—they were too busy with sight-seeing to do more than ask how I was and pass on—but the citizens, people whom I did not know, who surprised me by their frequent inquiries and the profusion of flowers they sent, until my room was like a great garden, and the doctor ordered some of them to be taken out, as the perfume was so strong. No name ever came with the flowers but once, and that touched me closely.