“Luba Lazareff is a well-known revolutionist, your excellency. The French maker of bombs, Gustave Lemaire, is her lover—not this gentleman. Gustave only left Ostrog yesterday.” The speaker was, it was plain, an agent of secret police.
“And where is Lemaire now? I gave orders for his arrest some days ago.”
“He was found this morning by the patrol on the road to Schumsk, recognised and shot.”
At this poor little Luba gave vent to a piercing scream, and burst into a torrent of bitter tears.
“You fiends!” she cried. “You have shot my Gustave! He is dead—dead!”
“There was no doubt, I suppose, as to his identity?” asked the General.
“None, your Excellency. Some papers found upon the body have been forwarded to us with the report.”
“Then let the girl be shot also. She aided him in the manufacture of the bombs.”
“Shot!” I gasped, utterly staggered. “What do you mean, General? You will shoot a poor defenceless girl—and in face of that ukase before you—in face of my demand for her protection! I have promised her marriage,” I cried in desperation, “and you condemn her to execution!”
“My Emperor has given me orders to quell the rebellion, and all who make bombs for use against the Government must die. His Majesty gave me orders to execute all such,” said the official sternly. “You, sir, will have safe-conduct to whatever place you wish to visit. Take the girl away.”