“Ah!” she cried wildly. “My God! It is the statement in the Novosti! Listen, Vladimir!” Pausing to gain breath, she shuddered at the sight of the long knife that I had drawn and held in my hand. “It was a vile lie concocted by my husband in order that the Nihilist vengeance should fall upon me. When Stepán Nekhlindoff’s plot failed he resorted to this scheme, and got some journalist he knew to insert the libellous statement, well knowing that I should not escape death.”
“Is the allegation untrue, then?” I asked, amazed.
“Yes. I swear it is. At the time of the trial I was at Odessa with the Archduchess Paul, and was perfectly ignorant of everything until I saw the paragraph. I wrote contradicting it, but they did not publish my letter. It was the Prince who desired that the Organisation should remove me and leave him free.”
“I accept your explanation, Princess,” I said. “Yet how am I to save you? By my oath I am bound to obey the mandate of our Circle and encompass your death.”
“I am innocent, Vladimir. Am I compelled to die?” she asked, glancing apprehensively at the knife that flashed so ominously in the lamplight. “Can I not have time—time to prepare for death?”
“How long?”
“Three days, or more. I—I shall not try to escape. I swear.”
“Very well,” I replied in a low voice. “It is agreed. Three days.” And bidding her a strained, sorrowful farewell, I left her.