"Fools," suggested Serge heartily. "Well, those gentlemen who sit in comfort in St. Petersburg, and whose thoughts don't carry as far as Kara." "I will go," said Paul, getting up. "I will go--and speak with her again," and he went out, feeling like one who has fallen on his head and is going home to tell of the accident. The thought of Yakutsk was horrifying to Hope. But Paul would be with her and that would make up for much. He had made Kara a heaven for her. Well, they would carry their heaven with them wherever they went,--ay, even to Yakutsk. And perhaps it might be only for a time, and then they would be allowed to come back to Kara. What happiness the rough little house had held for them! She would have liked to take that chair with her--that chair at which they had knelt the other night. Perhaps Captain Sokolof would let her have it. She would get Paul to ask him. It was hard to decide what else to take and what to leave, for if they took everything they had they would still be bare at Yakutsk, and in a thousand mile journey by teléga there was little room for superfluous baggage. Still, she would have that chair, whatever she had to leave behind. She flitted busily to and fro, arranging and folding and tying into bundles. She would put a bold face on matters and bear herself bravely, for she knew his fears were all for her. She would show him that he need not fear. The only thing on earth she feared was losing him. Side by side with him she could stand anything, even Yakutsk. With such thoughts working in her, the face she turned on Pavlof when he opened the door was to him as the face of an angel. So high a courage, so much of tenderness, so much of love were in it. He never forgot it. "Paul, my dear----" she began, and broke off short at sight of his ghastly face. "Oh, what is it?" she cried, in new distress and terror, as he sank heavily on a seat. "Listen, Hope," he said quietly, but his voice was as strained and unnatural as his face. "I have other news for you--terrible news----" "Ah!" She jumped to it with womanly instinct. He knew it by the sudden pallor of her face. "Serge--is alive and well." "My God!" she gasped, and her hands fluttered gropingly, as though they sought something tangible to hold on to. "He is here, Hope," and he caught the wandering hands and held them. "Here? Oh, Paul! Paul!" and her hands gripped his convulsively, and the sudden tumult of her heart fined her voice to a terrified whisper. "Dearest," he said, "we did what seemed right and our hearts are clean. A higher than Serge must judge us." It was the right note, and it quieted her. But they sat long in silence and gazed desperately into the future, and it was full of shadows. "We must be very cautious, Hope--for his sake," he said at last. "His life hangs by a thread. A word, a sign, and he is lost. It is he who has brought the order to transport me to Yakutsk."