"Those wretches! They deserve the knout!" Loris said grimly, when we were alone. "They were all well armed, and yet, at the first hint of danger, they took themselves into hiding, leaving those two women defenceless here. Well, they will have to take care of themselves in future, the curs! The countess is dead," he added abruptly.

"Dead!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. Always, even in her madness, she remembered all she had suffered, and her terror of being arrested again killed her. It is G.o.d's mercy for her that she is at peace,--and for us, too, for we could not have taken her with us, nor have left her in charge of Natalya and these hounds, as we had intended. We shall bury her out in the courtyard yonder. It is the only way, and later, if nothing prevents, we start for the railroad."

"Where is Pendennis?" I asked. "Is he not here?"

"No; he may join us later; I cannot say," he answered, staring out of the window. I felt that he was embarra.s.sed in some way; that there was something he wished to say, but hesitated at saying it. That wasn't a bit like him, for he had always been the personification of frankness.

"I wonder if there's a bath to be had in the house," I said inanely, looking at my grimy hands.

"Yes, in Va.s.silitzi's dressing-room; the servant will take you up," he answered abstractedly, and as I moved towards the wide old-fashioned bell-pull by the stove, he turned and strode after me.

"Wait one moment!" he said hurriedly. "Are you still determined to go through with us? There is still time to turn back, or rather to go back to England. It would not be easy perhaps, but it would be quite possible for you to get through, via Warsaw and Alexandrovo, if you go at once."

"Why do you ask me that?" I demanded, looking at him very straight. His blue eyes were more troubled than I had ever seen them. "Do you doubt me?"

"No, before G.o.d I trust you as I trust none other in the world but Mishka and his father! But you are a stranger, a foreigner; why should you throw your life away for us?"

"I have told you why, before. Because I only value my life so far as it may be of service to--her. If I left her and you, now, as you suggest, smuggled myself back into safety,--man, it's not to be thought of!"

"Well, I will urge you no more," he said sadly. "But you are sacrificing yourself for a chivalrous delusion, my friend."

"Where's the delusion? I know she does not love me; and I am quite content."

Long after, I knew what he had wished to tell me then, and I can't even now decide what I'd have done if he had spoken, whether I would have gone or stayed; but I think I'd have stayed!

When I had bathed and dressed in Va.s.silitzi's dressing-room,--he was still in bed and asleep in the adjoining one,--a servant took me to Anne's boudoir, a small bare room that yet had a cosey homelike look about it.

She was alone, sitting in a low chair, her hands lying listlessly on the lap of her black gown. Her face was even whiter and more weary than it had looked in the morning, and she had been weeping, I saw, for her long lashes were still wet; but she summoned up a smile for me,--that brave smile, that was, in a way, sadder and more moving than tears.

"You have heard that my mother is dead?" she asked, in a low voice. "She died in my arms half an hour after we got in; and I am so glad,--so glad. I have been thanking G.o.d in my heart ever since. She never knew me; she knew none of us, but Yossof; and that only because he had been near her in that dreadful place. You saw her--just for a moment; you saw something of what those long years had made of her,--and we--my G.o.d, we had thought her dead all that time!"

She shuddered, and sat staring with stern, sombre eyes at the fire, her slender fingers convulsively interlaced.

She was silent for a s.p.a.ce, and so was I, for I could find never a word to say.

Suddenly she looked straight at me.

"Maurice Wynn, if ever the time comes when you might blame me, condemn me,--justifiably enough,--think of my mother's history. Remember that I was brought up with one fixed purpose in life,--to avenge her, even when I only thought her dead. How much more should that vengeance be, now that I know all that she had to suffer! And she is only one among thousands who have suffered,--who are suffering as much,--yes, and more!

There is but one way,--to crush, to destroy, the power that has done,--that is doing these deeds. It will not be done in our time, but we are at least preparing the way; within a few days we shall have gone some distance along it--with a rush--towards our goal. I tell you that to further this work I would--I will--do anything; sacrifice even those who are dearer to me than my own soul! Therefore, as I said, remember that, when you would condemn me for aught I have done, or shall do!"

"I can never condemn you, Anne; you know that well! The queen can do no wrong!"

The fire that had flashed into her eyes faded, dimmed, I thought, by a mist of tears.

"You are indeed a true knight, Maurice Wynn," she said wistfully. "I do not deserve such devotion; no, don't interrupt me, I know well what I am saying, and perhaps you also will know some day. I have deceived you in many ways; you know that well enough--"

"As I now know your purpose," I answered. "But why didn't you trust me at first, Anne? When we were in London? Don't think I'm blaming you, I'm not, really; but surely you must have known, even then, that you might have trusted me,--yes, and Mary, too."

She was not looking at me now, but at the fire, and she paused before she answered slowly.

"It was not because I did not trust you, and her; but I did not wish to involve either of you in my fortunes. You have involved yourself in them,--my poor, foolish friend! But she, have you told her anything?"

"No. She does not even know that I am back in Russia; and before I returned I told her nothing."

"She thinks me dead?"

"She did not know what to think; and she fretted terribly at your silence."

"Poor Mary!" she said, with a queer little pathetic smile. "Well, perhaps her mind is at rest by this time."

"You have written to her?"

"No,--but she has news by this time."

"And your father?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"You must ask me nothing of him; perhaps you will learn all there is to know one day. How strangely your fate has been linked with mine! Think of Yossof meeting _you_ that night. He had heard of my danger from the League. Ah, that traitor, Selinski! How much his miserable soul had to answer for! And he did not know whom to trust, so he set out himself, though he speaks no word of any language but his own, and bribed and begged his way to London. He found out some of the League there, at a place in Soho, learned there where Selinski lived, stole the key to his rooms, and--met you. He is a marvel, the poor good Yossof!"

"Did you know it was he, when I described him that night?" I asked impulsively.

She looked up quickly.

"I have told you, I did not wish to entangle you in my affairs, and--"

The door opened and her cousin entered.

"Ah, you are engaged," he exclaimed, glancing from one to the other of us.

"No, we have finished our chat," said Anne. "Come and sit down, Stepan--for a few minutes only. We have much to do,--and far to go, to-night."

How weary and wistful her face looked as she spoke!

CHAPTER XLV

THE CAMPAIGN AT WARSAW

A few hours later we were on the road once more,--Anne and Natalya in a travelling carriage, the rest of us mounted. The old servant was sobbing hysterically as she followed her mistress down the steps, but Anne's white face was tearless, though she turned it for a moment with a yearning farewell glance towards the fresh-made mound in the courtyard, the grave where we had laid the corpse of her mother, in the coffin which Mishka and some of the men had made during the day.

That hurried funeral was as impressive as any I've ever been at, though there was no service, for it would have been impossible to summon a priest in time. Besides, I doubt if they'd have got an orthodox Russian priest to come, for the Va.s.silitzis were Roman Catholics, as so many of the old Polish n.o.bility are.

In dead silence the four of us, Loris and Stepan, Mishka and I, carried the coffin down, wrapped in an old curtain of rich brocade, and stood by with bowed heads, while, still in silence, it was lowered down, pall and all.