He wished for Boylan again.
Peter was in the street, moved along the walls as one very tired. He was searching, but the thoughts grew so terrible that he could not keep his eyes to outer activity. His steps led him to the Court of Executions. Standing by the street gate, he dreaded to enter. He would not tolerate this, yet it was more than life or death. He had a mental picture of finding her there, her body shrinking into one of the stone corners—as a maimed bird that has fallen lies still under its wings.
His breath burst from him. He had been holding it as if under water. His eyes traveled electrically now.
There were dead in the court, but she was not there, nor Abel nor Fallows. He looked through the row of gratings and under the arches. There was a low stone lintel with a dim deserted hall beyond....
Just now a step behind him, heavy boots ringing on the stone flags. Peter turned. A Russian soldier halted, raised his rifle, commanded him to advance.
Peter waved his hand in a gesture of obedience, but turned to glance in the gloom under the lintel again. It was just in the turning that he had caught the gleam of her colors—not when he stared straight in. Peter assured himself of this before giving himself up.