My loss was irreparable, for it had put an end to my self-imposed mission.
Such were the thoughts which ran through my overstrung brain at the moment when the blackness of insensibility fell upon me, blotting out both knowledge of the present and apprehension of the future.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Identification!
When again I opened my eyes it was to find a lamp being held close to my face, and a man who apparently possessed a knowledge of surgery—a political exile from Moscow, who had been a doctor, I afterwards discovered—was carefully bathing my wound.
Beside him stood two Cossacks and the chief of police himself. All were greatly agitated that an attack should have been made upon a man who was guest to His Imperial Majesty, their Master.
To my host’s question I described in a few words what had occurred, and bewailed the loss of my papers and my money.
“They are not lost,” he replied. “Fortunately the sentry outside heard your scream, and seeing the intruder emerge from the window and run, he raised his rifle and shot him.”