“There is no risk, no danger!” he said, as he would have done to reassure a fretful child. “He, the _staròstá_, has not been near the houses where there is sickness--but there will be worse erelong if one does not act promptly. Had there been risk of contagion I would not have gone near him, for Prince Piotr’s sake--indeed, Your Highness, not for mine, but for Prince Piotr’s.” “How do you know whether there is risk or not?” Laurence exclaimed, violently drawing her skirts around her. “Send for twenty doctors, if you like. What do I care! I am going. I’ll leave here to-day. Give orders for instant departure. Prince Piotr and his household can come away, too. But go, go at once, and see to it!” She was clutching distractedly at the back of a chair, and her fingers fidgeted restlessly upon it. Garrassime was gazing at her in absolute consternation. What was he to do in so unexpected a dilemma--so unheard-of a situation! And this was his beloved master’s wife--the Princess--the mother of the Boy-Heir of his--Garrassime’s--adoration! “Your Highness does not know,” he said, without moving from his place, “that the doctor is far away. He has twenty thousand _souls_ to look after, and will not move without peremptory orders from the _Zèmtsvo_, or from Your Highness, since his Excellency our Prince is not here.” “And if it gets worse?” Laurence asked, shivering like a leaf. “If there is more of that plague coming? If--” “_Bòg dâl y Bòg vzial_,” Garrassime gravely replied (God gave and God took!). “That is all we will say then, Highness. It is for you, Illustrious, however, to prevent its happening--if it can yet be done!” “The land-steward and the intendant must look to it all!” Laurence cried, tripping over her words. “You are here to take care of me--of Prince Piotr. You must not have anything to do with this ghastly affair!”