There was a little hollow on the south side of the tower which was sheltered from the wind on every side. This hollow the Master filled with the earth, and planted the little plot all over with flowers. In this way he soon had a perfect flower-garden laid out.

There was, then, one human being in the tower who took pleasure in flowers.

But did the terrible doctrines professed by the Master permit him to act thus kindly towards any living creature?

Alas! Nothing in creation is flawless—not even the Satanic confession of faith. Even Satan is sometimes tricked by his disciples, and unbelief itself has its hypocrisy.

To his own thinking, this man had succeeded in banishing every human feeling from his heart—but this one still remained. He had, he thought, been able to renounce every virtue in favour of its opposite vice—but this one he could not renounce. He could not fight down the kindliness that filled his heart for the poor girl, Mashinka, who had saved his child, who had accompanied him into exile, and who had become a loving mother to his boy and a devoted companion to him. So he felt grateful to her.

But that was surely a heresy against the religion he professed and preached—a positive breach of the all-denying dogma! For Gratitude is itself a virtue and closely related to Love. Gratitude being merely a tyranny of the soul over the body, how could the body, which had now become master, admit it? And if the body be indeed the ruling lord, the right of thought also belongs to it. Its philosophy must, then, determine the course of both action and feeling. Was it not plain that this one contradiction in the Master's principles might—nay, must, overturn the whole edifice of Babel?

Nevertheless, the Master found it impossible to shut his heart against this one feeling. With the most painstaking art he had laid out this garden—bought at a higher price even than the gardens of Semiramis; and that, too, for a poor peasant girl who alone in that Babel of hate had retained in her heart the priceless feeling of Love.

When the garden was finished and planted with all the flowers the island could afford, the Master led Mashinka to the door, which had hitherto been closed to her, opened it, and said simply:

"The garden is yours!"

"The garden is yours!"

And as the girl, weeping with joy, threw herself at his feet, pressed his hand to her lips and covered it with her tears—did not the captive spirit throb rebelliously within its weak bodily prison, and ask: "Is not a single tear like these—a single cry of joy—sweeter far than a sea of blood, and a chorus of death-shrieks from the throats of thousands of vanquished enemies?"

At the thought, he pushed the girl away from him and rushed up to his laboratory, there to continue the work of destruction.

CHAPTER VI
Compensation

Then Mashinka took the boy's cold hand in hers and tried to soothe away the pain that filled his heart. She taught him how he ought to love both his Heavenly and his earthly father, even though both should chastise their child so severely that love was moved to give place to fear.

Thus the evil seeds which the Master was perpetually striving to sow in his son's heart by night, were ever rooted up again in the daytime by the poor Volhynian peasant girl.

CHAPTER VII
The Meeting

During that time some six hundred vessels had been shattered on the rocks of Dago. Some eighteen thousand men had perished, and a fortune of a hundred millions of thalers had been destroyed.

But still the demon of revenge and destruction was unsatisfied. Twelve years of blood had not sufficed to quench the fire of hate that consumed his heart.

All those whose bodies lay scattered among the rocks beneath him were men quite unknown to him. He never even learnt their names, nor was he present when they were struck down.

But one thing he still yearned for—of one thing he was ever dreaming. His sole remaining wish was to hold in his destroying power those who had made him so miserable; to meet them for a moment face to face; then to drink in the curses of their despair as they were thrust down into their graves. That, indeed, would be the very crown of his life-work!

During summer the work was discontinued. In northern regions lighthouses are of little service in the short and light summer nights. During these months of inactivity the Master, as became a dutiful father, instructed his son in all those arts whereby the mighty powers of Nature are made serviceable to man. He exercised him also in the use of arms—not in true knightly fashion, but with all the tricks approved of bandits and corsairs. He took the boy with him in his boat among the reefs along the shore, so that he should learn early to be reckless and defiant of all danger. Many a time he would throw the lad from the boat right out into the eddy. At first he was unable to get out without help, and then the father would leap in after him and bring him back by the hair of the head. In a little time, however, the lad was expert enough to dispense with all help, and would swim in and out of the most dangerous positions alone.

About the end of autumn in the twelfth year an imperial Russian gunboat was wrecked upon the rocks of Dago. Among the papers found in the cabin by the plunderers was an Admiralty order addressed to all the commanders of war vessels. This document stated that during the past twelve years a vast number of maritime disasters had occurred in the Baltic, and particularly (so, at least, it was believed) in the passage between Faro and Gustavsvarn. As not a single soul was known to have survived, the general voice of terror and exasperation had at length decided the ruling powers to move in the matter. The order went on to express the opinion that these seas must be the haunt of some piratical vessel which captured ships in stormy nights, and sent them to the bottom after slaughtering their crews. For, strangely enough, no one had ever found a single fragment of any of the missing vessels. Seamen (it was stated) were in the habit, when a disaster was imminent, of committing a short account of the catastrophe to the waves in a sealed bottle which, in all likelihood, would one day be picked up by fishermen. But out of some six hundred missing vessels no such memorial had ever made its appearance. Human hands, it was therefore concluded, must be at work, and search for them must be diligently made. The document, therefore, required the commander of every man-of-war and gunboat to take every possible step to track out the mysterious destroyer.

How the Apostle of Dago laughed sardonically as he read the order.

"So they are coming at last!" he cried; "those for whom I have waited so long! Right well shall they be received!"

At that season of the year dense fogs begin to be prevalent in the Baltic. These are of the utmost danger to seamen, for the rays from the lighthouses cannot penetrate the atmosphere, and the attention of vessels can only be attracted by the sound of bells.

On one such hazy and sultry night the Master of the Tower of Dago rang the bell for evening "service." That night, surely, they should hold high festival. Vessels of war were certainly scouring the seas all around. One such vessel was still wanting on the rocks of Dago. Smaller ships, such as gunboats, brigs and corvettes, were lying there in plenty, forming excellent places of retreat for the hydra and nautilus. To them the company of a full three-decker could not but be welcome.

Presently, in response to the sounds which had so often proved a mariner's death-knell, an answering signal was borne in from the open sea. It was the familiar, long-drawn tones of a great sea-horn, which can be heard many miles off in foggy weather.

They were coming, then, at last!

Only a little while ago, no doubt, they had thought that they had lost their way. But now, thank God! they were sailing towards a safe harbour. By daybreak they should be beyond all danger!

"Not God in Heaven can save them now!" muttered the Master, as with such thoughts he gazed intently into the gloom.

But, nevertheless, it appeared that He could save them.

Just as the approaching sound of the fog-signal indicated that the vessel could now be scarcely a mile distant from the tower, the fog suddenly lifted, and the rays of the rising sun disclosed the outline of a ship of the line.

She immediately dropped her anchor. For, now that the fog had cleared, the seamen perceived the danger of their position, and arrested their vessel's course. And that not a moment too soon. She lay-to about a gunshot from the tower, and presently hoisted the Russian colours. In response, the Master of the tower at once saluted her by running up the corresponding flag.

The vessel's long-boat was now lowered. The Commodore, a midshipman, and four and twenty marines and seamen took their places. All were fully armed.

They steered for the entrance facing the sea. Although well concealed, they had soon discovered it with the aid of their powerful glasses. They succeeded in making their way safely through all the rocks and breakers which threatened their approach.

The strangers were received at the lower door by an old, hunch-backed porter, who was, to all appearance, nearly stone deaf. The Commodore had to shout with all his might into the fellow's ears before he could be made to hear anything. Then he gave an answer of which not a word could be understood, for the old man spoke the purest Platt-Deutsch. By means of signs, however, he at length gave them to understand that he was the only servant in the establishment, and that if the gentlemen would like to speak to any one they might go upstairs and see "Mynheer."

The Commodore ordered his men to land, and the entire company then followed the old porter. At each door which they passed on their way the officer took the precaution of stationing two armed men. When he reached the observatory floor only the coxswain and the midshipman—the latter quite a lad—remained with him. But these were evidently more than sufficient. For the Master of the tower was quite alone in his study and had beside him no other weapons than those of science.

The Commodore saluted him in good French:

"You are the Master of this tower, I believe?"

"At present, indeed, I am."

"And for what purpose did you have it built, pray?"

The Master glanced sharply at his questioner.

"May I first inquire," said he, "what entitles you to ask such a question?"

"You shall hear," replied the officer. "You see, of course, by my uniform that I am Commodore on a ship of the line in the service of his Majesty the Tsar of all the Russias. The three-decker lying out there is my vessel the St. Thomas. Of late years an enormous number of ships have been lost in the Baltic, and that in the most mysterious circumstances. I have therefore received orders to stop and search every suspicious vessel on the high seas, as well as to make any investigations upon the coast which I may consider advisable. My name is Count Zeno von Ungern."

Surely the Master's features must long ago have assumed the repose of death itself not to have been convulsed with every evil passion at the very mention of that name—the worst passion of all being joy.

It was his brother who stood before him.

The two sons had never seen each other since their earliest childhood. Zeno had visited his elder brother's house only in Feodor's absence at sea, while Feodor had never once appeared in the brilliant salons of the court. The elder brother, moreover, now looked much older than he really was. It was impossible, therefore, for Zeno to recognise him.

Feodor acknowledged his visitor's mission with a polite bow.

"I am delighted," he said, "to have this pleasure. My name is Baron Helmford."

"Ah!—a Swede?"

"My ancestors may have been so. I am from Friesland."

"And for what purpose do you live here?"

"I live here," answered the Master calmly, "mainly for scientific pursuits. There is, indeed," he added hesitatingly, "another reason as well, but one which, after all, I have really little reason to conceal from you."

"Why, then, do you not inform me of it at once?"

"Because a child might also hear it."

The Master here glanced significantly at the young midshipman who was also in the room.

"Oh, that is my son Paul," said the Commodore, with fatherly pride. "He is anything but a child. He is a midshipman on his Majesty's ship the St. Thomas, and has already been through many a deadly fray."

"I do not doubt it. And yet, he can hardly be more than—ah!—thirteen years old?"

"That is, in fact, exactly his age."

"I also have a son," said the Master. "He is sixteen years of age, and he too has seen and heard many fearful things. But one thing, you know, he must not hear—tales in which a woman——"

"Ah! you are right," said the Commodore hastily. "If it is a question of that sort I need ask no more."

"Now, Commodore, if you wish it, I will myself show you all the rooms and passages in the building. Be good enough to accompany me."

Feodor led the way down the stone steps connecting one floor with another. The smallness of the rooms into which each story was divided easily made the stranger imagine that he was seeing the whole of the space between the walls, whereas he really saw only about two-thirds of it. A vertical partition, running from the vaults beneath up to the upper story, shut off a portion of the space. It was here that all the plundered treasure, ammunition and guns were carefully concealed. Through this section a secret passage led down to the rooms in which the provisions were stored, and to the subterranean "chapel" in which the armed men were hidden, waiting for the signal to force their way by means of a trap-door into the upper portions of the tower.

The living rooms through which the Commodore was conducted had quite the appearance of such as might be used by some contemplative and learned recluse. They contained naturalists' collections, shell-fish and corals, antiquities, and book-cases filled with yellow-edged folios.

Presently the officer glanced out of a window in one of the rooms and saw away beneath him the flower garden with the asters and chrysanthemums blooming in the autumn sun.

"Ah!" he exclaimed; "that garden tells plainly enough that this tower has also a mistress."

"I am very sorry that I cannot conduct you thither, Count von Ungern," said the Master; "we should have to pass through the lady's boudoir."

"The lady is your wife, is she not?" inquired the Commodore.

"It is ill answering that question. Yes, and yet No."

"Ah! A secret, I perceive."

"Yes, Count. But to show you that the secret is in no way a suspicious one, I will make a suggestion. Where a man may not enter, a guest who is still a child may fitly enough be seen."

So saying, he opened a door and called:

"Alexander!"

In response, a tall sunburnt lad stepped from the adjacent room. His face betrayed much perplexity upon perceiving the strangers.

Feodor gently pushed him towards the younger youth.

"See," he said; "this is Count Paul von Ungern, a midshipman. Take him with you to see your mother; and be sure that you make good friends with each other."

Alexander gazed in wonder with his great dark eyes, first at his father and then at the strange lad. He then silently held out his hand to Paul, drew him towards him, and embraced him. Finally he linked his arm in Paul's and led him away to see his—mother.

The frank wonder expressed by the boy's flushed face quite disarmed the Commodore's suspicions. He began to believe that, after all, those walls might merely conceal the secret of some tragedy of passion. One might well have grounds, he imagined, for shutting oneself off from the world along with a woman whose face no one might look upon except a child no older than the tower itself.

And yet, had he but known it, the woman might have been safely seen by any one on earth except Zeno von Ungern alone. Had he seen her, he must at once have recognised the nurse of his brother's child—the girl he had so often seen when visiting Feodor's castle. The features of women, too, do not alter like those of men. Had Zeno seen her, therefore, he must at once have guessed who the Master of the tower really was.

The party had just stopped at the entrance to the dining-room. The little table was laid and luncheon was ready. A small cask of fresh beer stood tapped on the floor. Everything seemed most inviting.

"We might, perhaps, remain here," suggested the Master. "Your coxswain can examine the other rooms and the stores. There is nothing very remarkable about them. My old porter will open all the lockfast places for him. He can then report the result of his inspection on his return."

He laughed lightly as he concluded, and the Commodore laughed also. Their laughter seemed to be echoed by the voices of the two boys which sounded from the garden below. As Count Zeno again looked down through the window he saw that the lads were playing together. They were having a trial of strength. The clear voice of a woman, which seemed to sound through an open door, admonished them to be careful not to injure each other. But she apparently did not dream of admonishing them for trampling down all her flowers in their struggles.

As he looked on at the havoc caused by the lads, Count Zeno could not but feel that the inhabitants of the tower appeared to be quite the most hospitable and complaisant people he had ever met.

CHAPTER VIII
Reconciliation

For to him she was really so. Since his earliest years this woman had indeed filled a mother's place to him. His real mother had now other cares. This woman alone loved him. From her alone he had learnt that there should be any other feeling than anger and hate on earth.

Still greater, however, was his pleasure as he presented his guest.

"Look, mother!" he cried. "This is Paul—Paul von Ungern. Father told me to bring him to see you. He said we were to be good friends."

Tears were glistening in his eyes. For well he knew who this Paul von Ungern really was.

There was, in fact, one secret which Mashinka had never disclosed to Feodor during all these years. This same Paul, she well knew, had already entered the world when the great catastrophe overcame her master. It was, indeed, mainly this boy's birth which had caused the catastrophe. Two people whom a sinful passion had made to fall had their reasons for preventing Feodor from learning their guilt. The woman, having committed the first fault, was compelled to conceal it with fresh sins. The husband, therefore, had never learnt this secret.

In an hour of confidence, however, when the boy had fled to her in horror from the frightful teachings of his father, Mashinka had told young Alexander the truth. Under her breath she told him that he had mighty enemies in that world which had vanished from him in childhood: that they were his uncle and his uncle's son—a half-brother. It was because of them, she told him, that he was compelled to waste away his life in that dreary rocky fortress. But she also taught him that it was the duty of good men who wish to please God to forgive their enemies; and taught him, too, a simple prayer which a good man might pray for his enemies—a prayer that God might turn their hearts, that they might cease from persecuting him, and that they should become reconciled with him, free him from that life of captivity, and once more hold out to him the hand of friendship. She had taught him even to pray for the welfare of that brother who from his very birth had unwittingly been the boy's persecutor.

So, now that he was able to say to Mashinka, "Look, here is Paul von Ungern," it seemed to him as if these words said simultaneously, "My prayer has at length been answered. My enemy is reconciled, and has come to free me. And God is indeed good, and so is my father. Now I can love both God and my father—yes, and my enemy also."

Mashinka understood the boy's thoughts well. She threw her arms round both their necks and kissed them.

"Yes, yes," she said smiling, "you must indeed be good friends."

She then brought forth from her cupboard a host of dainties, and spread quite a little feast for them. While partaking of this Paul began to tell Alexander of the great world of adventure so well known to him, and of his frequent encounters with the pirates of the northern seas. Here it occurred to Alexander that the swordsmanship of pirates is distinguished by its peculiar cuts and thrusts, with the exercise of which he was but too familiar. He therefore brought out his weapons and gave Paul some lessons in these useful devices, so that he might be able to put them into practice if he should again find himself in any piratical fray.

How happy he felt in having for once the companionship of a lad like himself—a true playmate. How his heart throbbed with joy when he looked at this brother of his. How glad he was, too, to find that Paul was such a fine strong fellow. As they fought, he took good care not to hit his opponent with his blunted weapon so hard as to hurt him. And if Paul, in return, chanced to give him a good sturdy blow, he would laughingly cry, "No, no; it didn't hurt at all!" And then he would praise him for his dexterity.

Mashinka stood at her window and silently looked on as they knocked each other about in the garden. And as she looked up she wiped away the tears that rose to her eyes. They were indeed tears of joy.

CHAPTER IX
The Minster Bell

So saying he spoke through the trumpet into the porter's ear. No one else was able to make out what he said. The castellan, however, appeared to understand the command. He made a sign to the sailors and marines who stood at the door, and begged them to seize hold of the beer-cask on the floor and carry it out. Of this, surely, they might quite safely drink. The liquor, they reflected, could not well be poisoned, for both the Master and their own commander had drunk from the cask.

When the men had disappeared Feodor rose and took from a small cupboard in the wall a bottle of sherry and two wine glasses, which he filled. The two men were once more alone.

"I am in no great hurry to leave this place," observed Count Zeno, after a pause. "I should like to take advantage of your hospitality for the night, if you can make that convenient. I will explain to you my motive for such a request."

"Before doing so," said Feodor rising, "allow me to inform the lady of the house that her guests are to stay over night. It will give me the utmost pleasure to make provision for yourself and your company. She, of course, will attend to the comfort of her guests."

"You are most kind," observed Zeno as the Master made his way into the adjacent room, which was Mashinka's. Feodor left the door ajar so that Zeno might hear what was said.

"There is only one bed in Alexander's room, but they can sleep together well enough for one night, I suppose."

Of course they could! Alexander would be only too pleased to have Paul actually beside him before falling asleep. No longer would he need to repeat the old nightly petition. That which he had so long asked was at length within his very embrace.

Feodor now returned to Zeno.

"Now, sir," said he, "I can hear all you may have to say. But first let us drink to each other."

They touched glasses, bowed to each other, and drank.

"In the first place," began Zeno, after a short silence, "I may as well inform you that all last night I and my entire crew thought we heard something very like the tolling of a bell away in the distance before us."

"Indeed," observed the Master with the most perfect calm.

"Yes," Zeno went on; "the tolling quite confused us. My officers, who, I fear, are by no means too expert with the compass and chart, declared that the sounds must have proceeded from the lighthouse of Gustavsvarn, whose lights, of course, could not then be seen in the dense fog. On the other hand, my coxswain, who, it is true, is a clumsy fellow enough, swears that it is impossible for the sound of a bell in Gustavsvarn to be heard in this quarter, for Gustavsvarn lies due north-east, while the sound we heard came more from the east. In his opinion the bell-ringing is simply nothing but the pranks of evil spirits. Just about here, he declares, there is a sunken town on the deep sea-bottom, and on foggy nights seamen always hear its minster bell tolling under the sea. The sound is too often their destruction, for the spectres' bell invariably leads them wherever the most frightful reefs and cliffs are to be found. There is quite a legend on the subject, I believe. Do you know the story at all?"

"Oh yes," said Feodor quietly, "I know it well."

"Pray have the goodness to tell it me."

On the spur of the moment Feodor composed and embellished a legend of a sunken town, from which on dark and foggy nights was heard the tolling of a minster bell. A Russian, he reflected, even although a commodore, is by nature superstitious. Possibly, he imagined, he would be satisfied with such an explanation.

"But do you yourself believe in this legend?" asked Zeno with a searching look, when he had finished.

Feodor met his questioner's gaze without a tremor, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Pooh!" he ejaculated; "why should I believe such stuff?"

"And yet," pursued Zeno, "there must be some truth in the story. The tolling of the bell had actually drawn us into such a dangerous position that, had the fog not lifted just before daybreak, I and my vessel should by this time have been at the bottom together. We dropped anchor not a moment too soon. But whence do the sounds come? One might conclude that they proceeded from some church spire on the island of Dago itself. But then, of course, no church bells are ever rung at night except at the service on Christmas Eve. Now, Baron Helmford, can you explain this mystery to me in any way?"

"Tolerably well, I fancy," said Feodor. "Without having recourse to any ghost stories, I think these sounds are capable of being explained quite satisfactorily—and that on purely scientific grounds. The sounds, I take it, do, in fact, come from Gustavsvarn lighthouse. The heavy atmosphere, of course, depresses the sound, which is then carried along the smooth surface of the water twice as far as it would be in fine weather. Sound has admittedly much greater travelling power in such an atmosphere than in clear weather."

"Yes, I know that," said Zeno. "But the altered direction?"

"That also has quite a simple explanation. The fog itself proceeds from the south-west. This, of course, prevents the tolling of the bell from coming in a perfectly straight line from Gustavsvarn. Moreover, the vibrations, being echoed back by the cliffs of Dago, seem even louder, and in this way, too, it may appear as if they actually proceeded from the island itself."

"That is true. But if, as you say, the cliffs of Dago merely echo back the sound of the bell at Gustavsvarn, then one must also hear the tolling perfectly well from here."

"That is so," said Feodor; "I have often heard it here."

"Very well, then," said Zeno; "I should like to convince myself of the matter, and will therefore accept your hospitality for the night."

"That," said the Master, with a bow, "I need hardly repeat, you are most welcome to do."

During the remainder of the day Count Zeno acted as if he were most deeply interested in all the sciences. He requested his host to instruct him in the various uses of all the instruments which lay around. He even pretended never to have seen a galvanic battery or a theodolite.

There was, however, one object in the room the purpose of which he was really unable to divine, but to inquire about which might have seemed the height of simplicity. It was a long, thick silken cord which hung down from the ceiling. What could it be? A bell-rope? But what purpose, he asked himself, would that serve? The only servant in the building was stone-deaf, so it would be of little use ringing for him.

Feodor had moved his chair in front of this hanging cord in such a way as to make it impossible for any one to approach it.

The two men sat and discussed various scientific experiments and, from time to time, the wine. While they were engaged in these occupations night began to fall. They could hear the two boys talking in the next room. The lads wished Mashinka good-night, and then went off to their bedroom. Shortly afterwards the men heard a deep sigh, followed by the opening words of a prayer. The woman was evidently commending her soul to Heaven during the night. All three, therefore, would soon be asleep.

"Now we may go up to the observatory," said Feodor, rising from his chair. "There we can listen better to the sound of the bell."

He stepped over to the fireplace in order to light a small hand lamp with which to show the way.

As soon as Feodor had risen from his seat and turned his back on Zeno, the latter stepped swiftly and noiselessly towards the silken cord and pulled it violently.

Immediately the deep tones of the hidden bell sounded from above.

"Ha!" he cried in triumphant wrath; "so the bell is here!"

"Wretch!" hissed Feodor beneath his breath; "you yourself have given the signal!"

Zeno drew his sword and sprang to the door opening on the staircase. Feodor was quite unarmed. The Commodore threw the door open and shrilly blew his seaman's whistle.

Immediately, as if in response to the shrill sound, the hurried footsteps of men were heard ascending the dark staircase.

"Seize that man and put him in irons!" ordered Zeno, pointing with his naked sword to Feodor.

But the men seized Zeno himself, tore the sword from his grasp, and bound his hands behind him. They were not his own seamen as he had expected, but the Master's hidden companions. In a few moments he was bound fast in the armchair in which he had been comfortably seated a few minutes before, and ere he could utter a word he was securely gagged.

"Well," said Feodor, placing himself calmly before his prisoner, "so you have discovered where the bell-ringers are, and for whom they ring! Doubtless you would like also to know who it was that rang. I am Count Feodor von Ungern, the brother whom you betrayed, whom you falsely accused, whom you had condemned to lifelong exile, whom you made a wretched fugitive, whose wife you carried off, and whose child you branded with shame. Since those days I have had no other thought but that of vengeance. I built this tower here merely that I might see your accursed nation's vessels dashed in pieces beneath it. Six hundred of them have I destroyed already, and your proud three-decker will be the first of the seventh hundred. The very moment you pulled that cord, my trusty men burst forth from their concealment, overcame your company, and, without a doubt, slew every one. And now they will put on your men's uniforms, and row off in your own boat to your ship. Then there will be a bath of blood! When every life has been destroyed they will set fire to the ship and let her burn to cinders. Ay! and you will be able to see the magnificent spectacle from the tower windows. There you may enjoy it until at last, with a final crash, the hull bursts into the air. At this sound our two boys will rush out of bed half dressed. To my son I will say: 'Look! That brand on your shoulder which has banished you for ever from the world, which prevents you from ever calling any honourable woman your wife, or disclosing your true name; that mark of infamy, which buries you alive and damns you for ever before you have even sinned—it was that man who stamped it upon you! He it was who robbed you of your heritage, who robbed you of your mother's heart—of everything on earth. He has turned your father into a devil, and of earth he has made a hell for you. That man has a son. There he stands. That stripling is to blame for all your misery. He had no right even to come into the world; by his very birth he utterly destroyed both you and me. He is a thief who has stolen away your good name. Well, you have there two swords. Fall upon each other!' I will say all this, and then you will enjoy the sight of my son killing yours. It may be, of course, that they will kill each other. But what matters that? We will both look on, quite calm and silent. When they have done with each other I will loosen your cords. It will then be our turn. For do not think that I intend to murder you like an assassin. No; I will place your own sword in your hand, and then—then may the Devil and Hell judge us! . . . Men! Take him away!"

The bound man writhed in an agony and his eyes gazed beseechingly at his brother.

But Feodor's face remained cold as marble.

CHAPTER X
Weakness

Might not she have heard all that had just been spoken—all those frightful things which she could not hitherto have imagined? . . . Might not she betray him?

With these thoughts rushing confusedly through his brain, Feodor took the lamp in his hand and entered the next room. The woman lay before him with closed eyes. He threw the lamp-light on her face. Her hands were clasped across her breast, which gently rose and fell.

Something whispered to him that the woman must die. She might have heard everything and might only be feigning sleep.

He set down the lamp. Placing one hand over her heart, he held in the other a keen dagger, so that its point just touched her breast. Had but a single quickened beat betrayed that she was aware of the danger so near her, the weapon would have pierced her heart. But Mashinka lay perfectly still.

Presently a smile flitted across her face, and her lips began to mutter words as sleepers often do in dreams.

"Do not tickle me so with the blade of grass, Shasha," she murmured coyly.

The Apostle of Dago had not the heart to drive the blade of steel into her bosom.

But something within him admonished him.

"Thou art not wholly mine," said the voice; "a single good feeling yet lingers within thee! By it thou art corrupted—thou art lost!"

Yet he could not kill her.

He consoled himself with the thought that she must certainly have been asleep and could, therefore, have heard nothing. It would be sufficient, he reflected, to take the precaution of securing the key of the door which opened on the outside steps leading down to the garden. Mashinka and the two lads would thus be all securely locked in.

He left the room and went up to the observatory.

Mashinka was not asleep. She had heard every word.

With almost superhuman strength she had fought down the terror that rose within her, and was able to appear asleep even while the dagger was pointed at her heart by the hand of the man whom she now knew in all his infamy.

She sprang from the bed as soon as the sound of Feodor's footsteps had died away, rushed to the little room where the two sleeping boys lay clasping each other's hands, and called them.

"Wake, children, wake!" she cried in despair; "prepare yourselves for death—it is close at hand!"

She then hastily told them all she had heard.

"And you are to be made to fight each other to death before your fathers' eyes!" she exclaimed as she concluded.

Alexander and Paul tremblingly embraced each other. It was not the thought of death that made them tremble, but the thought that their fathers should hate each other so.

"Oh! if you could but fly from here!" cried Mashinka.

"But how?" exclaimed Alexander. "Ah!—the door to the garden! Impossible—it is locked!"

"Here!" cried Mashinka suddenly; "through this window you can reach the garden—then over the outer wall and on to the rocks on the shore! There you will find a boat. In it you may reach the ship."

"But you—you must come with us too," they cried together.

But Mashinka had already begun to cut up the bed-clothes and tie the pieces together into a stout rope. The clothes were not long enough. Swiftly she passed into the dining-room, and cut off the bell-cord which hung from the ceiling. With this the rope was soon completed.

The night was dark and favoured the flight of the fugitives.