“Next comes a name almost illegible, but I have a strong suspicion it’s meant for James Wylie.” “Paul’s own physician in the plot?” “It seems so,” said Loris, scanning the name. “It’s a vile scrawl.” “His Scottish cunning. If the plot miscarry, he’ll be in a position to deny his signature.” “Likely enough,” assented Loris. “Would it surprise you to learn that there are women in this affair?” “Not at all. And the leading spirit among them is Pauline de Vaucluse.” “Right. There’s no hesitation about _her_ signature. Here it is, large, firm, bold, and differing from the others as being written in red ink.” “Ink?” said Arcadius, examining the signature. “It’s my belief it’s written with her own blood. I doubt not that it was she who started the plot. She hates Paul; she hates me; she hates the war with England. Conspirators can meet safely beneath her roof, since spies are unable to get a footing there. Besides, who would ever suspect a Foreign Embassy of hatching treason against the Czar. She would act as an excellent decoy, too, seeing that half the young men in St. Petersburg are in love with her. Hence the many balls given of late at the Embassy.” “By the by, why wait till morning before showing this document to Paul? Why not take it to-night?” “Need we be so precipitate?” “Yes, in view of Pahlen’s desperate strait. When he discovers—and he must have discovered it ere this—that his treasonable document is missing, what will he do? Aware that the plot has become known to others, he and his fellow-conspirators will see the necessity of striking the blow before Paul has time to learn of their treason. It behoves them to act, and to act at once. Delay will be fatal to them.” This conclusion, so startling, yet so palpably obvious, filled Arcadius with sudden dismay. “A thousand devils!” he muttered. “What may not be happening now at the Michaelovski Palace? We must—ah! what the devil’s that?” Hitherto quiet had prevailed outside the Citadel, but now in a moment the air became filled with a series of sounds, eerie enough and loud enough to startle the boldest. As if subjected to a well-directed fusilade of heavy artillery the fortress trembled to its very foundations, amid a confused shouting of voices, a grinding of timber, and a crashing of ice, intermingled with the dull plunge of heavy bodies into deep water. “By heaven! the bridge is down!” cried Loris. The bridge! Their only way to the Michaelovski Palace! The two brothers rushed to the nearest window. Finding it difficult to open, Loris shattered the glass with his sword-hilt.