Suddenly he lifted her from her feet and tried to drag her by sheer force to the door leading to the room beyond. She saw his intention, and for several minutes fought fiercely with a renewed strength of which she had not believed herself capable.
Presently, in the heat of the struggle, something heavy fell from his pocket. She stooped and snatched it up. At that moment she felt her strength failing, and exerted every muscle.
“Will you let me go?” she shrieked, her lips cut and swollen by the cruel blow he had dealt her.
“No, I will not,” he replied, with an imprecation.
As he uttered the words something bright glittered in her hand. He grasped her arm, endeavouring to gain possession of it, but was too late.
There was a flash, a loud report, and General Martianoff staggered back against the wall with an agonised cry.
“You—you’ve shot me!” he gasped hoarsely, and then sank upon a chair, inert and helpless, with blood streaming from a wound in his shoulder.
Mascha, in desperation, had resorted to the last extremity in defence of her honour.
That night was an eventful one in Mstislavl.