“Is it true,” he said, “––that ghastly tragedy?”
“Yes.”
“All died?”
“All.”
Estridge turned to Brisson: “Miss Dumont was companion to the Grand Duchess Marie,” he said in brief explanation.
Brisson nodded, biting his cigar.
The Swedish girl-soldier said: “They were devoted––the little Grand Duchess and Palla.... It 10 was horrible, there in the convent cellar––those young girls–––” She gazed out across the snow; then,
“The Reds who did it had already made me prisoner.... They arrested me in uniform after the decree disbanding us.... I was on my way to join Kaledines’ Cossacks––a rendezvous.... Well, the Reds left me outside the convent and went in to do their bloody work. And I gnawed the rope and ran into the chapel to hide among the nuns. And there I saw a White Nun––quite crazed with grief–––”
“I had heard the volley that killed her,” said Palla, in explanation, to nobody in particular. She sat staring out across the snow with dry, bright eyes.
Brisson looked askance at her, looked significantly at the Swedish girl, Ilse Westgard: “And what happened then?” he inquired, with the pleasant, impersonal manner of a physician.