For one moment Wilfrid hesitated. The wild blood of his viking ancestors danced in his veins, urging him to defy his enemies. He was convinced now that in any case death would be his lot; then why not die heroically, with his trenchant blade whirling round his head? “Give me his sword,” cried Paul, who had taken a fancy to the weapon. He was a collector of swords, and kept a little store of them in his bedroom. “This sword,” said Wilfrid, drawing forth the blade, “the gift of the Prussian Queen, shall never be handled by a Muscovite barbarian.” And ere his guards could stop him, Wilfrid snapped the blade in half, and flung the two fragments upon the snow. “An honourable way of treating a Queen’s gift,” sneered Paul; and then, addressing the officer, he added, “To the Citadel with him. To be brought to the Red Square at the first parade to-morrow. Your life for his, if he escapes. Forward,” he cried, addressing the regiment and waving his cane. The band struck up a march, and the grotesque Paulovski Guards, with the Czar at their head, moved onward again; and as they passed the wearied Petersburgers rose and straightened their stiffened limbs. They took care to keep at a respectful distance from Wilfrid, and to maintain silence. It was dangerous to express sympathy. At a signal from Voronetz, the four soldiers fell into position, two before Wilfrid and two behind, the lieutenant taking his place at the prisoner’s right hand. “Draw sabres. March.” Four swords flashed simultaneously from their scabbards; and, as the guard moved forward, Wilfrid mechanically moved forward with them, scarcely able to realise that he was a prisoner, so quickly had the event happened. “Gospodin,” said Voronetz, “when the monkey plays the flute you should dance. You have acted foolishly.” “Wisely; for I have maintained the dignity of an Englishman.” “And put yourself into prison.” “No more in prison than yourself, good Voronetz. Russia is a prison.” “’Tis a pretty large one, then. Gospodin, if one is not prepared to obey the laws of Russia, one should keep out of Russia.” “There’s something in that argument,” laughed Wilfrid. “Whither are you taking me?” he asked presently. “To the Petropaulovski Fortress.” “The Pet—? ’Tis a melodious name.” “’Tis called the Citadel for shortness.” “Where situated?” “On the other side of the Neva.” “Far or near?” “Three versts away. If the gospodin likes, he may hire a vehicle to take us thither.” “Thanks; but I’m in no particular hurry to reach your polysyllabic fortress. Who is the governor of it?” “Count Arcadius Baranoff.” “The devil!” “I believe he is, or a near relative. The post was given him as a sort of reward for his successful mission to France. There’s a fine salary attached to it.” The thought that he was to be put into the power of his enemy, Baranoff, was a somewhat disquieting one to Wilfrid. A dark cell and irons was the least merciful punishment he could expect from the malignant governor.