A door opened; the rush of foggy air set the flames of the altar candles blowing wildly. There came the clank of armed men.
Then, in the dim light of the chapel, a novice sprang to her feet, brushing the white veil from her pallid young face.
At that the ex-Empress, still kneeling, lifted her head from her devotions and calmly turned it, looking around over her right shoulder.
The file of Red infantry advanced, shuffling slowly forward as though feeling their way through the candle-lit dusk across the stone floor. Their accoutrements clattered and clinked in the intense stillness. A slovenly officer, switching a thin, naked sword in his ungloved fist, led them. Another officer, carrying a sabre and marching in the rear, halted to slam and lock the heavy chapel door; then he ran forward to rejoin his men, while the chapel still reverberated with the echoes of the clanging door.
A chair or two fell, pushed aside by the leading soldiers and hastily kicked out of the way as the others advanced more swiftly now. For there seemed to be some haste. These men were plainly in a hurry, whatever their business there might be.
The Tzesarevitch, kneeling beside his mother, got up from his knees with visible difficulty. The Empress also rose, leisurely, supporting herself by one hand resting on the prie-dieu.
Then several young girls, who had been kneeling behind her at their devotions, stood up and turned to stare at the oncoming armed men, now surrounding them.
The officer carrying the naked sword, and reeking with fumes of brandy, counted these women in a loud, thick voice.
“That’s right,” he said. “You’re all present––one! two! three! four! five! six!––the whole accursed brood!” pointing waveringly with his sword from one to another.