CHAPTER XXII.
A MODERN BRUTUS.
When Pomeroff awoke next morning, he rubbed his eyes sleepily and looked about him.
"By St. Nicholas, I have had a horrible dream," he muttered. "I must have slept on this couch all night."
On attempting to rise, however, he felt a soreness in every limb and the events of the preceding night flashed through his mind. Instantly his face became grave.
"Can it be that I have not been dreaming after all; that I was really in the lair of the Nihilists? Bah, it must be a mistake!"
He arose with difficulty and opened the window. It was a glorious day. The birds were chirping merrily in the trees that shaded the courtyard, but though the sun was high there were no signs of the usual activity below.
"It must be early," mused the Governor; "no one is stirring. What!" he cried, looking at his watch, "ten o'clock! There is something wrong."
He crossed the room and tried to open the door leading to the ante-chamber. It was locked. He tried a smaller door leading to the rear of the palace. It, too, was locked and resisted his efforts to open it.