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BORESKI’S letter ran thus:—

“I have just heard very disturbing news, and hasten to send it you, while I go to make inquiries. Drexel and I had a somewhat serious quarrel after leaving your house last night; very hot words passed between us on the subject of M. Denver’s visit, and we parted after some vague threats on his side, to which I paid no very great heed. But this morning I learn from Vattel—whose information is, as you know, generally reliable—that Drexel saw Vastic and some of those with him, and has told them who M. Denver really is. You will understand what is likely to happen at any moment, therefore, if your visitor is not protected. I trust in God that all is well up to now. All sorts of consequences are possible, and you should act at once. It would be absolutely fatal to all concerned if anything were to happen at your house; and my advice to you is either to let M. Denver return home the instant you receive this or to leave the villa with him and go secretly to Brabinsk. Precautions can be much more easily taken there, and, more over, no one will then know where to look for you. But for God’s sake act promptly.

“The enclosed is from the just issued Journal, and shows how the Court people are covering M. Denver’s absence.

“I shall seek you as soon as I have definite news; but unfortunately there is little room to doubt the gravity of things.”

“L. B.”

“This means?” I asked when I had read it.

“The Nihilists, monsieur.” Helga’s tone was firm and deliberate. “Vastic is the name of one of the leaders of the extremists.”

“You mean of the assassins?”

“Among the most reckless of them.”

“What will you do?”

“My present scheme has failed,” she replied, still calmly. “I must begin again; but I shall have proved my strength and I shall be revenged. M. Boreski is right. You had better leave at once. I would not have anything happen here for all the wealth of Russia.”

“But I am not the Emperor,” I protested.

“Need we play that sorry farce any longer? You had better go—and without an instant’s delay, monsieur. Come, let us order the carriage;” and she started towards the house.

“And the papers?” I asked, following her.

“My hand is forced by this. I shall use them.”

“My God, what a mess!” I cried involuntarily.

She paid no heed, but hurried me into the house, and gave orders for a carriage to be brought round at once.

“You are ready of course, monsieur,” she said quickly.

But I had made up my mind. Her fear of “something happening” had given me a cue.

“I am not going, mademoiselle, without the papers.”

“You will go, monsieur,” she replied, her face setting.

“Then I take the papers with me, mademoiselle.”

“On the contrary, monsieur, you will go without them.”

“We shall see;” and I sat down with an intentional deliberation.

“I have pledged myself for your personal safety. You must go.”

The purpose in her voice strengthened with every sentence.

“I will trust to my own right arm, mademoiselle. Without those papers, I do not leave the house, come what may.”

“You are dealing with a desperate woman, monsieur. You must go.”

“Then give me the papers to take with me.”

She came and stood opposite me, her eyes aflame, and her hands clenched.

“You shall go if we have to use force to take you away;” and she moved away and laid her finger on the bell.

“You will not do that, mademoiselle.”

“Why not?” she cried, turning round.

“Because the man who seeks to lay hands on me will touch nothing else in this life.”

For a minute she stood silent in distracted hesitation.

The silence was broken by the sound of the carriage wheels.

“We will see,” she cried, and pressed the bell.

“As you please;” and I rose and stepped back against the wall and drew my revolver.

At the sight of it she closed her eyes and threw up her hands with a cry of fear and anguish, and then clasped her hands to her head.

The servant came in then.

“Is the carriage there, Peter?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Very well.”

He went and closed the door.

“Your Majesty, I beg you for the love of God to go and save your life. Ah, do, do!” she cried distractedly.

“I am not the Emperor, mademoiselle; and without the papers I cannot and will not go.”

She came nearer to me.

“I beg and entreat of you. If you are caught here, think what will happen to me.”

“I have no discretion to think in such a case,” I answered firmly, although the sight of her suffering wrung my heart.

Almost before the words were out of my mouth she sprang forward in a wild attempt to seize my revolver. But I had been in too many tight corners in my life to be taken unawares, totally unexpected though the manœuvre was, and I wrenched my hand away and held her harmless with the other.

“This is worse than madness, mademoiselle!” I cried.

She gave up the contest then, and drawing away, fell into a lounge in an attitude of despair.

I had won the victory, but the fruits were too bitter. I put the revolver away in my pocket and crossed to her.

“Will you give me the papers?” I asked.

“No, I will die first, and so shall you! Oh God, how hard you are! I wish I had never seen you.”

“Then I will go with you to Brabinsk, and we can settle things there.”

She rose at once and shook off her emotion.

“Do you mean that?”

“Where I go is of no consequence to any one. I have to convince you of your mistake. I will go to Brabinsk. I have to save you.”

“You have no secret purpose in this?”

“Is that fair? If you need it, I give you my word of honour to act exactly as you wish—except in regard to those papers. I am resolved they shall not be used.”

“But you will be missed. You cannot stay away. You—oh, this is madness, too, surely!”

“You are wasting time.”

She thought quickly; then smiled bitterly and shook her head.

“No, monsieur, thank you. I do not walk open-eyed into a trap, however cleverly laid. You know I must take the papers with me, and reckon to get them by the way.”

“That is a suspicion worthy perhaps of—M. Drexel. I do not thank you for it. I am not such a mean cad. But that you may feel safe, you can travel alone in the carriage and I will ride with, say, M. Boreski’s messenger or any one you can trust to guide me.”

“I am sorry for what I said. I do not think it; indeed I do not, monsieur.”

“We have not much time for explanations, mademoiselle. We must act.”

“It might not be safe for you to be with me.”

“We will put it that way if you like,” I said with a smile.

“How dare you make such a hateful insinuation when I repent and retract my words?”

“We seem fated to misunderstand each other. But shall we do as I say? Order saddle horses, and I will take steps to prevent any one believing they can recognize me.”

“Ivan could guide you.”

“Then send Peter at once to my room. I will be ready in a few minutes;” and without waiting for more I hurried away.

In less than ten minutes Peter had shaved off my beard and moustache, and had found me from somewhere a riding jacket. I ran down, and was fastening my cloak across the saddle of the horse that was to carry me, when Helga came out, dressed ready for the drive.

She started on seeing the change in me, and at first scarcely seemed to recognize me.

“I should not have thought so simple a thing would make such a difference in your looks,” she said.

“I am ready to start, mademoiselle,” was my answer; and I swung myself into the saddle.

“You have been very quick.”

“It is for you I am anxious. Au revoir. Now Ivan;” and without waiting for more, I clapped the heels into my horse and cantered off. I looked back as I rounded a bend in the avenue, and saw that Madame Korvata had joined Helga, and that they were getting into the carriage.

Ivan rode up to me as we came out upon the road.

“To the right, if you please, your honour.”

He looked along the road in the opposite direction somewhat anxiously, but his face cleared.

“Do you wish to travel fast?”

“I am in your hands.”

“I think it would be best for a few miles, your honour,” he said, and accordingly we whipped along at a smart pace until the suburbs of the city were left well behind. Then he struck through a number of by-roads, until I was utterly at sea as to our whereabouts, except that by the sun I could tell we were travelling north; and we fell into a walking pace on reaching a very steep zig-zag hill.

Ivan was a fine sturdy fellow, with a strong, very intelligent face, and he sat his horse with consummate skill. I liked his looks.

“You have been in the army?” I said, letting him come to my side as we mounted the hill.

“In a Cossack regiment, your honour.”

“And prefer private service, no doubt?”

“I have a good mistress, your honour.”

“Oh, I thought you were M. Boreski’s servant.”

“These are Mademoiselle Helga’s animals, your honour.”

I had noticed before that all about her spoke of her either as mademoiselle or Mademoiselle Helga, and never used any surname.

“They are two good horses and in magnificent condition.”

“I am responsible for the stables, your honour,” he said with a pleased smile at the remark.

“How far is Brabinsk?” I asked him next.

“Twenty versts by the road the carriage will take—about twenty-six by this road, your honour; but the horses could do twice the distance easily.”

“So far is it? I did not know.”

We rode on in silence, and I noticed him directing curious sidelong glances at me now and then, until at last he said—

“Your honour’s pardon, but your honour is not Russian?”

I had been speaking Russian, and this had betrayed me.

“No, I am an American,” I answered with a laugh.

“Then your honour has crossed the sea. I have never seen the sea. I have heard of America. And so you have political troubles there, too?”

“Yes. We call them Tammany there.”

The word puzzled him greatly, and he repeated it several times gravely, shaking his head over the pronunciation.

“Is it the same as Nihilism?” he asked.

“No, indeed,” I replied, and attempted a brief description of Tammany Hall and its methods. Either my description was vague or his understanding of it imperfect, for his face took on an expression of disgust.

“What an awful country, your honour; what tyranny! I am glad I am not an American. Yet after all one’s own country is best, I suppose, and it must be sad to be an exile.”

His tone and glance were quite pitying now. He regarded me apparently as an exile.

I began to be amused at him, and drew out some of his views on Russia. The result surprised me. He was an intense and indeed a passionate patriot, but he hated the Russian Government. The Czar, as the God-appointed head of Russia, was a quite sacred person, a sort of Fetish in his eyes; but the ministers round him were as the incarnation of evil. For the Little Father it was the heaven-ordained duty of every good Russian to lay down his life willingly and instantly; while he seemed to suggest that it would be almost equally meritorious to take the lives of those who did evil and ground the people in his name.

I looked for the key to this queer mixture of political faiths in the man’s association with Helga, and knowledge of her wrongs.

“You are very devoted to Mademoiselle Helga?” I asked presently.

“My life is hers if ever she should need it, your honour,” he answered readily, simply and very earnestly.

“You are a good fellow, Ivan,” I said; and soon after that we rattled on again at the canter. As we rode, he evidently thought over what had passed between us, for when we drew rein again he came up and said—

“I crave your honour’s pardon, but was it your honour who came last night to mademoiselle’s villa?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I am mystified, your honour. It was you then whom M. Boreski bound me by all I hold sacred to guard with my life. And yet you are an American—a stranger—an exile. He told me——”

He stopped and shook his head in perplexity.

“What did he tell you?”

“That I was to serve your honour as if you were the Little Father himself; God keep him; that there was danger from the desperado Vastic; that I should probably have to guide you by by-ways to the Palace from the villa. And yet you are an American. I am filled with wonder.”

“Don’t I look like an American, Ivan?” I asked, smiling.

“Your honour has shaved since I first saw you. Then I thought you were the—— I trembled at your look, my lord.”

“Had I been what you thought, you looked for danger then?”

“God would have given me strength to protect His Majesty. I am mystified; but it is not for me to ask questions.”

“You know this Vastic, then?” I asked next.

“He is a good man, absolutely sincere, your—your honour,” he fumbled now over the way he should address me, and his manner had changed from frankness to nervous excitement. “Quite sincere; but a madman on one point; and his madness makes him dangerous and reckless.”

“A fanatic you mean against the Government?”

“Against the Emperor. We have fought once for that, and he nearly killed me. But we shall fight again, and then I shall win.”

“How do you know that?”

“It is fate, your honour; and, besides, I have practised.”

The combination of fatalism and deliberate preparation tickled me, and I smiled.

“And you were afraid for my life then?”

“Not yours only, your honour, not yours only; but mademoiselle and M. Boreski’s also.”

“Mademoiselle’s?” I cried with a start. “How and why?”

“I crave your—your honour’s pardon, but I may not speak of my mistress’s affairs.”

“I am her friend as staunchly as you can be, Ivan; and if you can tell me anything without speaking of her private affairs, do so.”

He thought for a while.

“It is only what I myself fear.”

“Then you can surely tell me,” I said eagerly.

“If your—your honour had been what I thought, and not an American only, Vastic’s anger and that of those with him would have fallen on mademoiselle herself.”

“Why?”

“It is so plain, your honour. He would have held it such treachery for—for such a one to have been at the villa and to have left it unharmed.”

“My God!” I cried as the light burst upon me. “You mean they would condemn the mademoiselle and M. Boreski for not having taken my life when apparently they had the chance?”

“Your honour can surely see that clearly.”

As the full danger and possible horror of the thing rushed upon me, I dashed my heels into my horse.

“Come, then, for God’s sake! Let us get to her and see that she is safe,” I cried, and we covered the remaining miles as fast as the gallant beasts under us could travel. And gallantly they carried us; up hill and down, without let or stop we rattled along, Ivan to the full as eager and urgent as I, until we reached Brabinsk and drew up before the door of a secluded house lying away from any road. I dismounted from my sweating, panting horse, and asked for Helga.

She had not arrived, and we were quite unexpected; but at a few words from Ivan I was admitted, and he led the horses away to the stables.

I was too anxious to remain in the house, and as soon as I had washed and removed the traces of the reckless ride from my clothes, I went out to the gate and waited with a feverish impatience for signs of her coming.

The thought of the danger into which she had plunged maddened me; and I breathed a fervent thanksgiving when at length I caught sight of the carriage.