As Alexis spoke he set his sightless eyes appealingly upon Wilfrid. There was something pathetic in the picture of this youth, whose infirmity rendered him unable to avenge himself. The brutal slaughter of Lieutenant Voronetz had filled Wilfrid with disgust, a feeling that, in a degree scarcely less strong, included the Czar likewise, when that ruler, instead of punishing the savage, gave him a place in the Ministry. Wilfrid hesitated no longer when he heard that his going with Alexis might bring about the downfall of Benningsen, against whom Pauline had whispered certain dark hints. In what way this was to be brought about, Wilfrid did not stop to inquire. Arming himself with a sword and a brace of pistols, he declared himself ready for the journey. Sallying forth from the hotel, Wilfrid found the city wrapped in a fog so thick as to prevent him from seeing anything distant more than an arm’s length. No voices: no footsteps: no wheels: not the faintest sound anywhere. There was something weird in the silence that hung over all. Petersburg was like a city of the dead. Wilfrid soon began to see that he was with a guide of peculiar excellence; the real reason, perhaps, why he had been selected for the trust. On a foggy night blindness is better than sight. In walking down the staircase of the hotel Wilfrid had guided Alexis; in the street it became the turn of Alexis to guide Wilfrid. Linking Wilfrid’s arm within his own he walked forward with no more hesitation than an ordinary man would have shown in traversing the street in broad daylight. It was marvellous to mark the ease with which he steered his course, now to right, and now to left. To him darkness was no darkness at all. Twenty minutes of silent walking, and then the two were brought to a sudden standstill by a startling challenge. “Who goes there? Halt!” Barely discernible, there loomed up out of the fog a figure clad in a long grey coat with cross-belt, and armed with a bayoneted rifle. Alexis whispered something that Wilfrid did not catch, and the soldier, apparently satisfied, melted into the fog again. “A sentinel, and a watchword,” thought Wilfrid. “Either a Government building or an Imperial palace. I incline to the palace.” The two went forward, treading upon a wooden flooring that gave forth a hollow sound. Moved by curiosity, Wilfrid drew forth a coin and flung it sideways in air. Its descent, as he had expected, was accompanied by a slight splash. “A bridge and water,” he thought. “The Fontanka Canal, or the moat round the Michaelhof? The moat, I fancy.” At the end of the supposed bridge they were challenged by a second sentinel. Alexis whispered, and, as before, the two were permitted to pass on, walking now over a pavement of flagstones. “The courtyard of the Michaelhof,” murmured Wilfrid.