"You say she is an anarchist?"
"We have known it for some time, sir."
The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes were red like blood. He approached the girl and stood over her, his fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself with a difficult effort.
"You heard?" he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart, detached. "Is it true? Are you mixed up with this infernal Revolutionary business? My daughter! An anarchist against the Tsar? Look me in the eyes and answer. May all the curses of heaven strike you if it is true."
The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her. "It is true," she said, "I am an anarchist."
The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in blotches. His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came nearer.
"You fired the shot?" he cried, "You! Answer me, on your soul—the truth. It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan? You?"
The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering. Still she looked at him and signed an assent.
"You—you shot the Grand-Duke?"
Her lips moved and she bowed her head.