The girl put her hand aside, and sprung to her feet. No longer was she white of face. The blood of the Berezolyis was in her cheeks; her eyes were dilated; her voice was proud and indignant.
"And I," she said, "if this is true—if this is possible—Oh, do you think I am going to see a brave man sent to his death, shamelessly, cruelly, and not do what I can to save
him? It is not for you, mother, it is not for one who bears the name that you bear to tell me to be afraid. What I did fear was to live, with him dead. Now—"
The mother had risen quickly to her feet also, and sought to hold her daughter's hands.
"For the sake of Heaven, Natalushka!" she pleaded. "You are running into a terrible danger—"
"Do I care, mother? Do I look as if I cared?" she said, proudly.
"And for no purpose, Natalushka; you will only bring down on yourself the fury of your father, and he will make your life as miserable as he has made mine. And what can you do, child? what can you do but bring ruin on yourself? You are powerless: you have no influence with those in authority as I at one time had. You do not know them: how can you reach them?"
"You forget, mother," the girl said, triumphantly; "was it not you yourself who asked me if I had ever heard of one Bartolotti?"
The mother uttered a slight cry of alarm.
"No, no, Natalushka, I beg of you—"