“Not a dismissal, sirs,” he pleaded; “not a dismissal: anything but that! I will go into some distant land, and my mouth shall be closed forever. I will do anything that the society asks, but pray, pray do not dismiss me.” “You know our laws, and you know your crime,” said Alexis, in a cold, harsh voice. “Who drove us from Odessa by his false tongue and his double face? Who wrote the anonymous letter to the Governor? Who cut the wire that would have destroyed the arch-tyrant? You did, Paul Ivanovitch; and you must die.” I leaned back in my chair and fairly gasped. “Remove him!” said Petrokine; and the man of the droschky, with two others, forced him out. I heard the footsteps pass down the passage and then a door open and shut. Then came a sound as of a struggle, ended by a heavy, crunching blow and a dull thud. “So perish all who are false to their oath,” said Alexis, solemnly; and a hoarse “Amen” went up from his companions. “Death alone can dismiss us from our order,” said another man further down; “but Mr. Berg--Mr. Robinson is pale. The scene has been too much for him after his long journey from England.” “Oh, Tom, Tom,” thought I, “if ever you get out of this scrape you’ll turn over a new leaf. You’re not fit to die, and that’s a fact.” It was only too evident to me now that by some strange misconception I had got in among a gang of cold-blooded Nihilists, who mistook me for one of their order. I felt, after what I had witnessed, that my only chance of life was to try to play the _rôle_ thus forced upon me until an opportunity for escape should present itself; so I tried hard to regain my air of self-possession, which had been so rudely shaken. “I am indeed fatigued,” I replied; “but I feel stronger now. Excuse my momentary weakness.” “It was but natural,” said a man with a thick beard at my right hand. “And now, most honored sir, how goes the cause in England?” “Remarkably well,” I answered. “Has the great commissioner condescended to send a missive to the Solteff branch?” asked Petrokine. “Nothing in writing,” I replied. “But he has spoken of it?” “Yes; he said he had watched it with feelings of the liveliest satisfaction,” I returned. “’Tis well! ’tis well!” ran round the table. I felt giddy and sick from the critical nature of my position. Any moment a question might be asked which would show me in my true colors. I rose and helped myself from a decanter of brandy which stood on a side-table. The potent liquor flew to my excited brain, and as I sat down I felt reckless enough to be half amused at my position, and inclined to play with my tormentors. I still, however, had all my wits about me. “You have been to Birmingham?” asked the man with the beard. “Many times,” said I. “Then you have, of course, seen the private workshop and arsenal?” “I have been over them both more than once.” “It is still, I suppose, entirely unsuspected by the police?” continued my interrogator. “Entirely,” I replied.