“Ivanovitch,” he said aloud, addressing his servant. “That Jewess is a Nihilist. Order Osnavitsch to have her closely watched.”
Then he viciously bit the end off another cigar, and taking up the paper, resumed his reading.
Mascha, after leaving the Palace of the Governor, had wandered about for several hours in search of some one who would give her bread; but all her efforts were futile, and when she returned to the Ghetto she had found that her mother had passed away.
With the moonlight full upon her she was kneeling beside the body, her face buried in the ragged covering, and sobbing as if her heart would break. Unable to restrain her flood of emotion, she did not notice the cautious opening of the door, or the entrance of a tall, dark figure that crept noiselessly up behind her and stood in the shadow watching, and listening to her murmurings.
“It’s cruel,” she said aloud, suddenly drawing a long breath and clenching her teeth in despair. “To the Tzar is due the dire misfortune that has fallen upon our house. He has taken our money and cast us forth to die like dogs! It is he—the Tzar—the murderer!—who is responsible for my mother’s death. He is a vampire who lives on the blood of such as us.” Raising her white, tear-stained face and looking up to the bright moon, she cried despairingly: “What can I do? My father exiled, my mother dead, Anton on military service, and I am left alone—alone!” she added, in a half-fearful whisper, “to seek revenge!”
“Very pretty sentiments indeed,” remarked a gruff, harsh voice.
Springing to her feet, she confronted General Martianoff.
“You!” she gasped. “Why—why do you come here?”
“To see you, my pretty one,” he replied, throwing off his great sable-lined shuba. He endeavoured to place his arm around her waist, but she drew back quickly.