CHAPTER XXIV
"THEN YOU ARE NOT—?"

"We were listening to you," said Zeneida. "Your audience were enchanted."

"When I was travelling in the Caucasus," said Jakuskin, "I chanced to hear that very fable. The man with the green eyes is the allegorical symbol of Caucasian fever, so rife there. The meaning of it is, that whoever has received the incubation of that fever, whether he be wounded in battle, mangled by wild beasts, or swallowed up by the sea, will meet no other death than that prepared for him by the green-eyed spectre!"

Bethsaba saw Pushkin standing before her. She gazed into those eyes in which to look out one's very soul must be so sweet, and held out her hand to him.

"I have not yet thanked you for having saved my life. You came just in time. I could not have kept my seat an instant longer."

"But how could the Duchess have allowed you to be there at all?" asked Pushkin, in tones of reproach.

"I begged her to let me do it. I was so sorry for her, for she was so terrified, and even began to cry, a thing I could not stand. Do you know whether she reached home safely?"

"She is perfectly well. I inquired. I assure you that my sole reason for going expressly to her palace to make inquiries was that I knew your first thought would be for her. There is nothing the matter with her. She went off at once last night in her boat to Peterhof, where she is in safety. She must have passed this very castle; but, of course, her only reason for not stopping to take you in was because she felt satisfied that you were in good keeping."

And Bethsaba saw no irony in the words; for, in truth, she felt quite happy in the place where she had those eyes to look into.

"And now I can give you nothing in return for having saved me, for I am so poor."

"Like me," returned Pushkin.

And Zeneida whispered in his ear:

"Oh, the boundless riches that would come from the union of your poverty!"

Bethsaba turned back to her washing apparatus.

"Please let me go back to my work. Duty before everything!"

"Blessed be the hands that perform it!" said Pushkin.

And each word of his was music in Bethsaba's ears.

"Now I know that I love him," thought she to herself. "I am fully convinced of that. But does he love me?"

"We must now leave you," said Pushkin. "I only came to bring you news from Ghedimin Castle. We must be getting back. The flood is still rising; the whole of St. Petersburg is under water. There is no end of work for us to do; but we shall be coming backwards and forwards many times in the course of the day. I shall have many gifts to lay at your feet, dear Princess."

Gifts! Did not her godmother tell her that the Russian youth brings gifts to his lady-love? So then—

"Gifts?" she asked, with naïve joy, an innocent flush upon her pretty cheeks. "What kind of gifts?"

"Boatfuls of muddy, ragged children for you to wash and dress."

The girl laughed and clapped her hands with glee.

"Oh, that is capital! Do bring them—the more the better! That is the kind of gift I love."

The two men, in their sailor's dress, all wet and muddy, hastened off.

"Pushkin," said Zeneida, accompanying him to the adjoining room, "that girl is Heaven-sent to you."

"Since when have you believed in heaven?"

"Be off with you! You are a goose! What news had you of Ghedimin?"

Pushkin shrugged his shoulders.

"He is at home quite well. I saw him through the balcony window, but could not speak to him, as he did not open it. He is a good sort; spirited enough, too, when once he is put up to a thing, but with no self-reliance. He is fond of you, and is really anxious about you; but he knows that your palace is on sufficiently high ground to be out of danger, and that you have a host of friends to protect you. He is hospitable, and is generosity itself, and is certain to subscribe hundreds of thousands for the relief of the sufferers; yet he does not offer to take a soul into his own place, for fear of spoiling his carpets and floors; nor does he send out a cup of soup to them, because he has no wife to stand by him and encourage him in it. He is even philanthropic, yet fears to go out in the damp lest he should get rheumatism. He is an incorporated 'idea,' and he knows it."

"You are a calumniator! I am convinced that he is ill."

"He is certainly not ill unto death, or the Duchess would never have left him behind and gone alone to Peterhof."

"Don't be in such a hurry! What of the Czar?"

"He is rowing about everywhere in his boat. Jakuskin, come here! You met the Czar; tell us about him."

"Oh, bosh!" returned the other, impatiently.

"Come, tell. Zeneida likes to hear these things."

"I have no secrets from her; she knows me through and through, and that I shrink from nothing. Last night in my boat I twice came upon the Czar; we were but an arm's-length one from another. The torches of his bodyguard lit up his figure. He himself was lifting the weeping, raving people out of their windows—the very attitude for a pistol-shot! I had mine loaded in my pocket. I drew it out, and, to escape temptation, held it under water to prevent its going off."

"Do you see, Jakuskin?" exclaimed Zeneida.

"Draw no conclusions from that. That I would not shoot him at the moment that he was helping his people is no proof that I have given up my plan. A deed of violence at such a time would have raised up all Christendom against the perpetrator. Let's have no sentiment. I merely let him go free from well-grounded self-interest. Now I will confess to you what I had not yet even confided to Pushkin. For the second time, and not by chance, I met the Czar at the Bear's Paw. Now, the Bear's Paw is in that quarter of the town which unites one end of Unishkoff Bridge with Jelagnaja Street, a locality of whose existence St. Petersburg high life has no idea. And Nevski Prospect, with its noble palaces, leads up into that labyrinth of squalor and misery. But it is out of the range of the carriage-drive of the magnates. There the scum of Europe mixes with the refuse of Asia. And any catastrophe brings the refuse to the top. Our worthy friends must have been rather unpleasantly surprised by the Neva's unexpected performance; they had prepared one of another sort. The rising water washed them out of their cellars into the attics. And they knew how to howl! When the Czar heard so many clamoring voices he had his boat turned in their direction. I followed him at a distance, and saw him himself draw each several man out of the attic windows, and witnessed their humble subjection to him. I had to cram my fists into my mouth to prevent my laughter. The select company of the Bear's Paw was taken off by the Czar to the Winter Palate, and Herr Marat and Company will have received a cup of 'kvass' broth from the imperial hands and returned a teeth-chattering 'thanks.' But a very convulsion of laughter seized me when our friend Dobujoff, got up as Napoleon Bonaparte, crawled out of the shanty. The Czar exclaimed, 'Diantre! Est-ce-que vous êtes retourné de Sainte-Hélène?' Upon which Napoleon had to confess that he understood no word of French. Now comes the catastrophe. Not by hand of man, but by means of a bit of wood. In front of the Bear's Paw a tall pine staff had been erected, on the summit of which was stuck a pitch wreath. From this hung a line which had been steeped in saltpetre, and was evidently intended to have been lighted—probably as the signal. The masses of ice washing up against it had unsettled the staff; it began to totter, and must inevitably have crushed both the Czar and his boat's company had not, fortunately, a man been near who, perceiving their danger in time, seized the line with powerful grip and swayed the staff round so that it fell beside the boat instead of upon it."

"That man was you!" exclaimed Zeneida.

"No matter! But this much I see, that a nobleman cannot be a common murderer. He is too fastidious about time and place. So to a more favorable opportunity!"

"One thing more," said Zeneida. "Did the Czar touch, too, at Petrovsky Garden?"

"No."

"All right. I will not detain you any longer."

The two men hastened down to their boat. Zeneida went back to Bethsaba. The Princess had by this time dressed all the mujik children.

"Now, children," said Zeneida, "go prettily, hand in hand, to the winter garden; there you will get your breakfast, and then you may play."

Winter garden! palm grove! What sounds for poor children's ears!

Then, turning to Bethsaba, she said:

"Now, dear little Princess, you remain here. Take a good hot bath; it will do you good after your yesterday's exposure. I will be back in an hour. There is a bell; ring for all you want."

Bethsaba's head was all confused. Everything was so new and strange to her.

A pleasant sense of fatigue stole over nerves and imagination after the bath. What a pity that there was no one here to whom she could confide her thoughts and feelings! It would have been so nice! If only Sophie were here! Ah, if she were here there would be no further reason for alarm. Two young girls together are the very essence of heroism! And now she began to wonder what could have happened to Sophie in this dread time. Had any one thought to go to her assistance? had she listened to the alarm signals and thundering cannon with despair in her heart? What tears she must have shed as she looked out of her windows at the rising expanse of icy water! Bethsaba shuddered. Her excited fancy pictured her friend kneeling, with uplifted hands, before her holy images, imploring help. Would that prayer be answered? Or was it but a faint breath, lost in the rushing of the Auster?

Folding her hands, she prayed that help might be given to Sophie. Perhaps the combined prayer of two maidens might have greater efficacy. What a pity that there was no holy image in the room! She was forced to shut her eyes, that some Buddhist idol might not think she was addressing her prayer to him.

Thus Zeneida, on her return, found her.

"What, praying again, Princess? This is the time to be up and doing."

"But what can I do?"

"First of all, drink down this wine soup that I have brought for you. I want to see you quite well and strong again, for I want your aid."

"My aid?"

"Now sit down and take your breakfast while I unfold my plan."

Bethsaba trembled. The thought of the dragon in the fairy story struck her, who first feasts the captured children on almonds and raisins and then slays them. She could scarce get down her soup.

"I dare say you know that one-storied house standing in a garden, near the engineer's buildings, where a young girl and her old servant live?"

Bethsaba lost not a syllable.

"According to water-mark measurements that house stands four cubits lower than this; hence the water which has encroached here to the castle steps has already flooded the ground floor, and is reaching up to the windows of the first story, and the water is still rising. But one cubit more and it will be rushing through the windows in the first story. Now, if the flood lasts another two or three days, which, unfortunately, is but too certain, that poor, delicate child will be in despair. Her only protector dare not go to her help on account of his high position; those he has sent have gone away without accomplishing their errand, for the girl is obstinate and mistrustful. She will not trust herself to strangers, for she dreads meeting the same fate as did Princess Tarrakonoff. There is therefore no other means of saving her from the endangered house than for you to come with us, for she loves and trusts you. On hearing your voice she will readily let herself down from her balcony into the boat; then we will bring her here, and you can occupy the same room together while the danger lasts. You will not be alone in this anxious time, and she will feel comforted in your society; and, the time of peril happily over, we will drive her back to her home."

Bethsaba had forgotten her breakfast while Zeneida was speaking; her eyes opened wider and wider, her cheeks rounded and flushed; she laughed with tears in her eyes; and as Zeneida finished she jumped up from her chair, and, placing both hands on Zeneida's shoulders, looked trustfully into her eyes, as she joyfully said:

"Oh, then, you are not the devil!"

Zeneida broke into a peal of laughter.

"Who told you that I was?"

"My godmother. But I see now that it was all a lie."

"It was only a manner of speaking. If one dislikes any one very much, one says that he or she is a devil."

"It was on account of the stag that my godmother was so angry with you, was it not?"

"Yes; for that."

"But she need not then have frightened me so by telling me that the devil looked just like you."

"Oh, little goose! There is no such thing as a devil. Only that people like to ascribe their own wicked imaginings to an ideal being, who, in reality, has nothing to do with the evil within them."

"But you are a real fairy, then! For you read into my very soul, and how anxious I was about Sophie, and longing to see her. It was just for that that I was praying, that my darling little Sophie might be saved and brought here. And then you come in and bring me, like the message in the Gospel, the comforting answer: 'Go yourself and fetch her!' And do you still venture to affirm that there is no good in prayer?"

"To those who believe it is good," replied Zeneida, kissing the girl's forehead; upon which the latter, throwing her two arms lovingly round Fräulein Ilmarinen's neck, said:

"Let us say 'thou' to each other."

And they signed the compact with a kiss. Then joyously running to the table, Bethsaba drank her wine soup almost at a breath. There was a little left in the glass.

"That you must drink; I left it for you."

And the bond was sealed.

"I am quite ready; let us go," said Bethsaba.

"Wait just a few minutes. We will let the gentlemen get away first. We will go out by the garden gate, and take only one man to steer and another for the boat-hook."

"Then we will row, won't we? I am accustomed to it, and strong as iron."

"It would be no use. The boat can only be sculled through the ice, especially against the current, and that will be done with the boat-hook."

"Well, I am still convinced that you are a good fairy, Zeneida. You will call me Betsi, won't you? And I must tell you that I am not at all afraid of good spirits. Oh, we have so many at home! Tamara is queen of them. For if you were not a fairy, how could you know that the flood was going to last two or three days longer?"

"There is no magic in that, dear little Betsi, for the barometer hanging over there against the wall is pointing to continued storms. Moreover, the city archives tell us that the danger always lasts several days when a southwest wind causes the Neva to overflow its bank."

"Well, that certainly is simple enough. So it was no prophecy? But then you said something else—that that gentleman, Sophie's only protector, could not go to her help. Now what barometer told you that?"

"Humph!" Zeneida, pressing her lips together, reflected for a moment, then said, "Do you know who that illustrious person is?"

"Of course I do. Why, how often have I met him at Sophie's and have told him fairy tales! And Sophie has told me everything; things that no one else knows anything about. But I will tell them to you, for people who love each other must have no secrets—don't you think so?"

"Certainly! Well, then, dear child, all this time that illustrious personage has been unable to go to Sophie, because, since the flooding of the Greater Neva, it has been necessary for him to show himself wherever the danger was greatest, in order, by his presence, to stimulate others to the task of assistance and to insure success. Had he, instead of this, gone to Sophie, who lives on the Lesser Neva, there would have been fearful rioting. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, indeed, I understand too well," returned Bethsaba, sorrowfully.

"But to-day they do not allow that illustrious personage to show himself in the inundated streets."

"Who?"

"His advisers."

"Why not?"

"Because they have discovered a plot against his life."

"Oh, how sad!" sighed Bethsaba. Then her mind flew to the last link of her chain of thought: "A plot against the life of the Czar, and known to Zeneida! From whom could she have obtained the knowledge so quickly? From those two men; but from which?"

Timidly approaching Zeneida, and leaning over her shoulder, she whispered:

"It was not the younger man of the two, was it, who told you?"

"No, no," replied Zeneida, to whom the child's whole soul was revealed. "Fear nothing for him! His hand and heart are clear from it."

"And you are in it?" asked the girl, touching Zeneida's breast with the tip of her finger.

Zeneida was startled by the direct questions. Was it childish curiosity, or had it a deeper meaning? Bethsaba remarked her surprise.

"You see, there can be no secrets where love is. I will tell you all I know, and what hitherto I have told to no one—not even to my godmother, whom I believe I fear more than I love. But you I love so very, very much, and that is why I am going to tell what I know, and how awfully they plot against him. He himself told Sophie. In Petrovsko the rebellious soldiers and peasants would not allow him to go farther; they insulted and threatened him to that degree that he had to turn back. Now these people were ragged and starving, and I can understand their being angry with him. But what complaint have you against him? You are rich, beautiful, and fêted. Why, then, are you one of the conspirators?"

An idea flashed into Zeneida's mind. This child might form the link in the chain that was still wanting.

"Come nearer; let us whisper it, that even the walls do not hear. I, too, love you, and will frankly tell you all I know. I, too, am in the conspiracy, and play an important part in it."

"What reason have you?"

"I am a 'Kalevaine.'"

"And what is a 'Kalevaine'?"

"In Soumalain language, that which you are in the Circassian language. A girl who, when she came into the world, had a home she no longer has, whose nation, then Soumalain, is now known as Finnish. Doubtless you remember as clearly as I do the people and places you were among up to your sixth year, whom you may never look on again, and yet whom you never can forget?"

"Oh, it is true."

"Is it not? Amid all the pomp and splendor the world can give, in the midst of the most brilliant court festivities, do you not feel a sudden pang at heart when the thought of your dark native woods flashes across you; of the horsemen, on their fiery steeds, coursing over the rushing mountain streams; of the blue mountains in the far distance, and your ancestral castle, in which, enthroned, your father received the homage of his vassals?"

"Oh yes, yes."

"And even now you remember the legends told you by the murmuring streams of your native land?"

"You are right; you are right."

"Well, then, you see, so it is with me. My recollections, like the mighty roll of the Imatras, are forever surging in my soul. Just as little can I forget those moss-covered rocks, the most ancient peak in the whole world, the Fata Morgana of our Finnish plains; the red-roofed houses, with low beams across the rooms, from which hung strings of loaves; the legends of Kalevala, and its people's freedom, of which my father used so often to tell me. Then I did not understand all he said; now I recall all and—understand him."

"I, too, recall; but I do not understand it yet."

"The Czar has deprived you, as me, of our fatherland; he has deprived our people of their freedom! And, as through him we became orphaned, homeless, so he became a father to us in place of our own fathers. For our little kingdoms he has given us a great one; for our quiet homes, pomp and splendor. As a man, he has been a father to us; as Czar, a tyrant. For the one I cannot be ungrateful to him; for the other I cannot forgive him. So I stand hemmed in by two conflicting duties. As my adopted father, it is my duty to shield his sensitive heart, to protect him from the assassin's dagger, from pain and sickness; but at the same time I am bound to deliver my country from the iron grasp of the tyrant, to snatch from it my people and their freedom. Do you understand?"

"I see you fly before me; but I cannot follow your flight, cannot catch you up. Tell me, is 'he' too in the conspiracy?"

Zeneida knew whom she meant by "he."

"No. He dare not! I will not suffer him to take part in it."

"Oh, then permit me, too, to remain out of it. Had you told me he was in it, I must, too, have been."

"That's right! You shall keep each other out of it. But, all the same, you must stand by me in one part of the hard duty."

"Tell me what I must do! I will obey implicitly."

"Our first thought must be to bring Sophie here, and to acquaint him whose heart is heavy on her account that he need be anxious no longer."

"Will you allow me to be the first to go in to Sophie?"

"You alone; she would not trust any one else."

And Bethsaba could not have desired greater happiness than to be the one privileged to step from the boat on to the balcony of the mysterious house in Petrovsky Garden. The flood had already risen to the balcony, and she it was who might hasten in to the neglected girl and say, "You are saved!"

The poor child was already without provisions or fuel of any description, for everything in the inundated cellar and dining-room was spoiled by water. Wrapped in her furs, she sat at the window, breathing upon it to make a clear space, and gazing with dismay at the huge blocks of ice floating unimpeded over the wrecked fence. Some, with their sharp edges, cut through the great trees opposing them as with a saw; others were tossed lengthwise against their barks, those following hurled upon them, until suddenly a great silver birch would go down with a crash. Once the resistance formed by the trees swept down, the house must follow. A pencil and paper lay prepared upon her writing-table, a carrier-dove in its cage beside it. They had been brought her by the Czar, that she might let him know when danger was imminent.

She was waiting to send off her message until the extreme moment, for she knew the grave difficulties which surrounded his coming to her rescue.

Thus her joy may be imagined on seeing Bethsaba appear on the balcony.

Seizing her pencil, Sophie wrote, with trembling fingers, "I am saved and in good hands; have no further anxiety for me!" Then tying her note on to the carrier-dove's wing, she set it loose. It flew up high in the air, then disappeared in the direction of the Winter Palace.

She did not ask where they were taking her, but followed Bethsaba in good faith.

CHAPTER XXV
GOG AND MAGOG

"Not for the first time. He who protected me yesterday will not fail me to-day. Be a Christian, and do not treat me like a child who lets himself be frightened by old women's tales. Remain at your post; I go to mine."

Araktseieff knew the Czar, and that opposition only made him more obstinate; so stood deferentially aside as the Czar strode past him.

The Czar passed, alone, down the long corridor hung with pictures of the battles he had fought. At the end of it a little negro groom stood waiting with a note, which he handed in silence. It was the Czarina's page, a birthday present to her of long ago. The Czar hurriedly broke open the note and ran it over, then looked down meditatively. Without a word he went back to his apartment and took off his cloak.

The note was from the Czarina: "I am afraid to be alone in the palace. Please do not leave me now!"

The words were a command; one which even the Ruler of All the Russias had no choice but to obey. His wife was afraid!

Now he is condemned to remain within the palace, like any imprisoned criminal.

For the first time for fourteen years his wife had made a request to him. How could he refuse it? Not only his sense of duty as emperor impelled him to repair to scenes of distress and danger, but also he was urged by that mysterious impulse from within, which ever drove him from one end of his empire to the other, leaving him no rest by night, until he would rise, get into his carriage, and drive from street to street. To stay in one place was torture to him. He had but returned this very week from a journey which led him as far as to the Kirghiz steppes. And now was he to sit idly at home? His wife had asked it. It is not much she asks. She does not beg him to come to her in her apartments, to stay with her, to cheer and comfort her; she only asks him to remain under the same roof.

Now he has leisure to pace from one end to the other of his room, to hearken to the pealing of bells, the roar of the wind, and the splash of the waves, whose surf dashes up to his windows. Suddenly he utters a cry—"Where are you, Sophie?" It is well that no one hears him, that he is alone. In spirit, he is in that solitary house, surrounded by the waves. His eyes search round the empty rooms where wind and weather sport unchecked, and, not finding her, he cries, "Sophie! where are you?" The vision he had called up was even more terrible than the awful reality of raging nature without. He could better bear to look upon that. Rushing to the balcony of the palace, he tore open the glass doors, and gazed down upon the ghastly devastation. The sight was awful indeed!

Wide as an ocean bay, the giant river was rolling back its waves upon Lake Ladoga. Ever and anon from out the misty distance loomed visions reflected in the surface of the madly rushing waters.

When Napoleon, watching the fire of Moscow from the Kremlin, saw how the storm was rolling the sea of flame upon the city, he cried in despair, "But what wind is this?" So now Alexander, as he watched the waves, lashed by the furious storm, dash up against his palace, asked, "But what wind is this?"

Houses roofless and in ruins; half-naked creatures clinging to their framework; here, a tiny hand raised in piteous appeal from its mother's arms; there, a man rowing with a plank, who finds no place to land on. Every gust of wind, every wave, brings some fresh sight to view. Now comes the remnant of a menagerie; its cages, chained together, are being whirled about in eddying circles. A Bengal tiger, who has burst his bonds, dashes wildly from one cage to another. Some men, clinging to the bars, dare not climb on to the top for fear of the infuriated animal. All must perish. Men and beasts shriek and roar in chorus. The waves dash them pitilessly on. Then comes the fragment of a wooden bridge wedged in between two icebergs. Upon it there still stands a carriage, shafts in air, from the interior of which projects a pink dress. Bridge and carriage float past, a flock of croaking ravens flying about them.

Who is sufficient for all these horrors?

The current swept on, swift as an arrow, the waves playing with their icy barriers; now building them into pyramids, now tearing them down, leaving a circling eddy to mark the spot.

Close by the Winter Palace stands the Admiralty, with its copper roof. The furious storm, tearing off a portion of this, rolls it up, with thunderous din, like a sheet of paper, flattens it out again, tosses it into the air, showering down fragments of it like a pack of cards; then, finally, rips off the whole remainder of the roof, hurling it into the principal square. Then follows many thousand casks of flour, sugar, and spices from the flooded warehouses of the Exchange—the whole winter store of a great capital a prey to the waves!

Again another picture. Arrayed in order of battle like a flotilla come a series of black boats, not originally designed to carry their inmates over the water, but under the earth. Coffins! The flood had burst the walls of the military cemetery of Smolenskaja, washed up thousands of graves, and was now bringing back their occupants to the city, of which they had long ago taken farewell. The buried warriors were coming to march past the Czar once more—the hurricane their deafening trumpets, the waves their kettle-drums! They even bring their memorial chapel with them, and their marble crosses, which tower in ghostly fashion from out the icebergs!

Nor is the fearful cyclorama over yet. The horrors of it are ever increasing. In the distance looms a three-master, bearing down upon the city—or, rather, in the cold gray mist it looks the ghost of a man-of-war. It had broken its moorings at Cronstadt in the gale, and now, driven before the wind, was coming down upon the city at full speed!

At that moment the Czar, forgetful of his dignity, hid his face and wept, never thinking whether any eyes were upon him. And many eyes were on him.

All those whom in the course of the previous night the Czar had rescued from the tottering houses in the suburbs—all those who, taken unawares in the tumult of the fair, did not know where to turn, the Czar had lodged in the western division of the Winter Palace, giving up that brilliant suite of rooms to the use of the poor and destitute. Such guests as these the Winter Palace had never harbored before! True, at New-year it was the custom for some forty thousand guests to assemble in the Winter Palace; but they swept the floors with silk, and illuminated the marble halls with their diamonds. Now, however, it was the show-place for rags and tatters. An exhibition of misery and destitution! There were collected together all those who form the shady side of a capital, and of whom the fashionable world have no conception—an aggregate of bitter want and of shameless depravity. They who did not dare to creep forth by day from their dark cellars have given each other rendezvous in the Imperial Palace. The Czar sent them food and drink, and they spent the night singing the Knife Song, taught them by the frequenters of the Bear's Paw.

Czar Alexander heard it, and doubtless rejoiced to know his guests were in such good-humor. They opened their windows, and those in front put their heads out, and called to the others to tell them what they saw.

The façade of the Winter Palace had two projecting wings. The refugees were housed in the west wing. Between that and the east, like the middle stroke of the capital letter E, stretched the covered balcony from which the Czar had watched the panorama of destruction.

On seeing him his guests became mute.

He was an imposing figure, with expansive forehead bared to the fury of the storm. As long as he remained impassive his self-control communicated itself to the spectators. But when they saw him break down and shed tears, when they saw that the Czar was but a man after all, they grew furious. Weakness arouses indignation.

A man, brother to the French republican Marat, seizing his opportunity, sprang upon the window-sill and shouted to the Czar:

"Yes, you may cry! Cry for the loss of your fine city! The God of vengeance has sent this destruction upon us as a penalty for your sins! Plague, drought, starvation—all have come upon us through you! For you are deaf to the cry of our glorious brothers the Greeks! Their innocent blood that has been shed cries out to Heaven for vengeance! You are the cause of this devastation! Heaven is punishing us for what you have done!"

The noisy voices of the people within drowned the concluding words; their yells outvied the storm. The mutinous speech had stirred up the already excited people to fury. The refrain of the Song of the Knife resounded to an accompaniment of infuriated noise and confusion. They tried to burst open the strong doors communicating with the corridor leading to the Czar's apartments.

He, standing on the balcony, was rooted to the spot by a double terror—behind him the yelling populace clamoring for his blood; before him the approaching ship. It was one of the largest men-of-war in the navy. When frozen up in the winter the crew is paid off, and the few men left in charge had evidently escaped, so that it came along without guidance of any kind, and was apparently making direct for the Winter Palace.

At the sound of raised and fierce voices every window in the central portion of the palace opened suddenly, displaying a treble row of bayonets. At one of the windows stood Araktseieff, who shouted in his cruel, harsh voice to the rebels:

"Silence, instantly, you cubs of Gog and Magog, or I will have you cast back into the flood from which your sovereign lord saved you! Ungrateful savages that ye are!"

This was adding oil to the flames.

"Oh, oh, Araktseieff!" roared a thousand throats. "There's the evil genius!"

"Come on!" screamed Marat. "Let's just see if your thousand bayonets can conquer our ten thousand knives! Make a beginning, or we will!"

The ship came nearer and nearer.

As it reached within half a cable's length of the Winter Palace, the Czar perceived a man in the wheel-house turning the wheel.

"What are you about, man?" he shouted down angrily to him.

The man knew perfectly what he was about. It was Borbotuseff, a naval officer and a deserter. How came he on board? No one knew. He steered straight for the palace, with the one hope of crashing into it, in order that all within, and he himself, might be buried under it. A red flag was flying from the mast.

The struggling crowd and the guards saw nothing of all this; the balcony gallery cut off their view.

Now the moment had come to prove which was the stronger, the house of wood or the house of stone.

But the current was stronger than either, and instead of the bow of the ship striking the palace, it came broadside on. It drew so much water that its keel crashed on to the granite coping of the moat, throwing the vessel on its side; while, like a knight in a tournament with outstretched lance, it struck with its masts upon its stony adversary. A terrific crashing and grinding—two of the masts broke to pieces against the pillars; the third crashed through one of the windows, shaking the whole massive structure from foundation to gable, yet the stone remained conqueror. The ponderous vessel broke in two; the bow half of the wreck was hurled on to Alexanderplatz; the afterpart, with the helmsman, fell back into the vortex, and was carried away with the current.

The concussion was like an earthquake. Of a sudden there was silence. People, soldiers, even Araktseieff, fell upon their knees. The man upon the balcony alone remained standing. He had seen something in the air. It was a dove.

The dove flew direct to him, hovered for a moment, and then alighted on his shoulder.

It was Sophie's carrier-dove.

Alexander found the letter under its wing, telling him that Sophie was in good keeping. Then, folding his hands in a prayer of thanksgiving, he raised them to Heaven.

But the dove is the sacred and wonder-working bird of Russia.

As it descended upon the shoulder of the Czar the fury of the people changed to superstitious worship. In it they saw the embodiment of the Holy Ghost. He who would not be lost must be converted. It was a miracle from Heaven.

Bozse czarja chrani! An old mujik suddenly started the hymn of praise, and all present joined in it. Araktseieff's bayonets had become unnecessary. Marat's brother, leaving the rostrum, disappeared among the multitude. Who could have found him among the ten thousand there gathered? And even if they had he would have denied his identity.

The flood lasted two days longer, leaving behind it three thousand houses totally wrecked and a countless list of dead.

The people firmly believed that Heaven's judgment had been wrought because the Czar had not come to the assistance of the Greeks in their War of Independence.

CHAPTER XXVI
UNDER THE PALMS

Without, ten degrees of cold, raging storm, flood, devastation, misery, revolution, scenes of horror. The palms knew nothing of all this. Upon the great, high elevation, under its glazed roof, reigned perpetual spring, where huge lamps with ground-glass globes replaced sunshine. And the tropical world suffered itself to be deceived. King-ferns, brought hither from the East, forgot that they were not growing in their native soil, and that they were putting forward leaves, never blossoms. The soil beneath them was heated with hot-air pipes and enriched by artificial aid.

And in this artificial garden of the tropics children were playing who had forgotten that their fathers and mothers were far away, perhaps not even caring. Here they neither got blows nor were hungry; but danced round the "mulberry-bush" and sang. Two beautiful young ladies—wards of the Queen of the Fairies—looked after them, just as in fairy tales.

Bethsaba had now a real true fairy tale to tell of her miraculous rescue from the terrible dangers; the sudden appearance of the handsome knight in her extremity, how his beautiful eyes, his look of daring, his heroic stature—

Sophie grew quite anxious to see him.

"You will soon see him, he is sure to come, he promised me he would. Still it does seem to be a long time before he keeps his word!"

"He is not, on any account, to know who I am," said Sophie. "It is to be kept secret here. Our hostess wishes it."

"Then we will only call you Sophie."

"It is singular that we three have only one Christian name; neither you, nor I, nor Zeneida bear our mother's names in addition, as is usual among us. I cannot understand it."

"Nor I."

"Here he comes!"

"How do you know?"

"I know his footstep."

And, in truth, he came. Zeneida brought him in, more wet and muddy than the time before. His hair dishevelled; his face reddened by the cold wind. Withal, so handsome!

Bethsaba had told Sophie that here, too, a conspiracy was on foot; but that "he" was not in it. Who else, then? Sophie only believes what she sees.

"Come, come, Pushkin!" exclaimed Zeneida, with strangely radiant look. "Relate again, fully, what you have already told me."

And Pushkin recounted all that had happened at the Winter Palace, of which he had been an eye-witness, with the enthusiasm of a poet inspired by the catastrophe.

The second girl was a stranger to him. Had he known who she was he would not have described with such poetic warmth the stirring scene when the Czar stood bareheaded, the storm raging round him, menaced alike by the fury of people and the fast-approaching vessel.

She listened tremblingly to his recital, drinking in his every word with feverish anxiety, the varying expression of his face reflected in hers; her lips seeming mutely to repeat what he was saying. Shudderingly she hid her face when the ship collided with the palace! She felt the force of the shock, and staggered under it.

When Pushkin went on to tell about the dove—her dove—how it descended on to the shoulders of her father, the Czar, with what joy the august ruler had raised his hands to heaven, and how with one voice the hymn of praise had burst forth from the lips of the rebellious people, the poor, overwrought girl's nerves could endure no more; with a cry of joy she threw herself into Bethsaba's arms, laughing and crying hysterically.

Pushkin, attributing her excitement to the power of his poetic delineation, was not a little proud of his success.

"But is all danger over now?" faltered Sophie, venturing to raise her tearful eyes to the young man's face.

He, not understanding the question, answered:

"The danger is not over yet, although the storm is certainly lessening, and, once lulled, the Neva will return to its bed; but until then much damage may yet ensue."

"It was not that I meant; but if he is still in any danger—he, the Czar!"

Pushkin was amazed. What interest could this girl, Bethsaba's friend, feel in the Czar?

"Danger at the hand of man cannot assail him, for Araktseieff has taken the most stringent measures for his protection. All those who were given shelter in the Winter Palace are being transferred to the Admiralty. Nay; at such a time his very foes, even had he any, would be the first to protect him."

"How can that be?" she asked, and waited for Pushkin's answer with the devout attention with which, in former times, the answers of the Oracle were received.

A secret instinct told Pushkin that he must answer in all sincerity.

"Because the feeling of 'humanity' is stronger than that of 'love of freedom.' It protects alike the serf when persecuted by the Czar, and the Czar when persecuted by the serf!"

The two girls heaved a deep sigh of relief into the air, weighted with these significant words.

"You are laying cruel waste in these two hearts," whispered Zeneida in Pushkin's ear. "You had better go back to your work."

"And you have not brought me the presents you promised?" asked Bethsaba, sorrowfully.

"I had not forgotten them; but from early morning we were busy trying to make fast the wreck; there must have been some one on board cutting through our ropes as fast as we threw them. And so I had no time to think of saving little children."

"When next you make a promise do not forget it," returned she, in tone of aggrieved reproach.

Pushkin could not understand her. Why that tone? How should he understand it? He promised to come again that evening to bring her good news, and something besides.

Neither she nor Zeneida had told him who the other girl was. Zeneida now took both girls into her boudoir. The time was approaching when she would be receiving many visitors whom it was not expedient for them to see.

The catastrophe offered favorable opportunity to the "Szojusz Blagadenztoiga" to hold uninterrupted sittings. There was to be a meeting of "the green book" to-day.

The two girls managed to find a "green book" for themselves. They searched about in Zeneida's boudoir until they found Pushkin's poem, The Gypsy Girl. This, of course, they had not read before; for, according to the dictum of "good" society in Russia, a well-bred girl up to her fifteenth year may indeed see, but not read, romances. Moreover, that poem was not to be had in print, only manuscript. Alexander Pushkin had created quite a distinct calling which had never existed before, that of transcriber. In every town were men who made a livelihood by copying out Pushkin's verses, sold, despite the Censor, by the booksellers. (There are still many houses in which only written copies of the works of the Russian poet Petösy are to be found.)

The two girls now eagerly snatched at the forbidden fruit. First Bethsaba read it to Sophie; then Sophie to Bethsaba. The third time they read it together as a duet.

Then they conferred the name of its hero, "Aleko," upon the author. And when they wanted to speak of him called him only "Aleko." And it fitted—only the other way about. Aleko had wandered among the gypsies (gypsy, poet, or bohemian being synonymous); this gypsy or poet had wandered among princesses. That evening Herr Aleko came, bringing cheering news. The storm had subsided, and the water had fallen a span; although it must be some time before it resumed its proper level, for it stretched away eight versts on either bank.

("Oh that it may last ever so long!" beat the heart of each maiden, secretly.)

He had, moreover, brought something for Bethsaba—a little doll, such as he had promised her, but not a little muddy doll in rags, but a lovely, gayly dressed, sweet little doll, made of sugar. There were no others to be had; all the others had melted. Pushkin expected the girl to laugh at his offering; but she took the matter seriously, accepted it with greatest solemnity, placed it in her bosom, and it was evident that she was not sorry to see Sophie just a tiny bit jealous of her. Pushkin was not slow to see that he must be careful, so he sought in his pockets until he found something worth offering.

"See, fair Sophie"—he did not know her other name—"I have something for you, too. You showed a special interest in the Czar this morning. Here is a piece of copper from the vessel that ran into the Winter Palace."

Thankfully it was received. The platinum mines of the Ural had never produced so precious a piece of ore.

"He can be no conspirator," whispered Sophie to Bethsaba.

"Decidedly not," whispered Bethsaba back.

"The storm has quite gone down," said Zeneida. "The bells have left off ringing. This will be a quieter night than those we have been having of late. Good-night, Pushkin. If you do not hurry you will find your boat running aground."

The girls would not have minded if the water had not gone down so fast.

Zeneida despatched Pushkin home, and the girls to their beds. She was responsible for their good health.

But it was long before they could settle to sleep. They had so much to say about Aleko. They had made up quite a different ending to the poem than the real one: the gypsy girl was not to have been faithless, but if she were, Aleko should have despised her and have found a more faithful love. The gypsy girl should have implored his pardon on her knees, and he should have forgiven her, but not have driven her away from him. In a word, they made Aleko what they fain would have had him to be.

Zeneida, who slept in the next room, several times admonished them to go to sleep. Then they would be quiet as mice, the next moment to begin whispering again. At last her regular breathing proved Sophie, at least, to have fallen asleep. Bethsaba could not sleep; her heart beat so violently that, despite the prayers she said, midnight found her still awake. Suddenly it seemed to her as if the occupant of the next room had risen, and with light footsteps had gone out into the room beyond. The night was still. Neither sound of carriage-wheels nor patrol disturbed the quiet of the inundated streets. From a distant apartment rose a psalm, sung in a woman's voice, low and sorrowful: