"Take care you don't cut me with your razor," were his first words to Schinko, as he began. Schinko was the only one there to whom he intrusted his throat. "If you slash my face I'll shoot you dead."
His two travelling-pistols lay close to his hand. Schinko was cautious, and completed the operation without disfiguring his master's face. A lucky thing for Araktseieff. For the gypsy was resolved at the slightest slip of his razor to cut his master's throat, that he might not have the chance to carry out his threat. Never had Araktseieff been nearer to his grave.
As he finished, the bells on the horses' necks were heard in the courtyard below.
Thrusting the Czar's letter into his breast-pocket, Araktseieff hurried away to say good-bye to Daimona.
She had locked herself up in the room.
"Then good-bye, my dear!" He had no time for more.
Daimona, from her window, could see the carriage dash away, with its escort of torch-bearers.
It was pitch-dark, the rain coming down in torrents—weather in which one would not have sent out a scullion.