And with this, she returned to her beads, and I walked the room in a fever of anxiety and anger; exasperated rather than comforted by her evidently despairing resignation. CHAPTER XXII. BAFFLED. THERE was a window in the inner cell, a narrow slit in the solid wall on a level with my eyes, and barred with iron. It served only to admit the air and a faint gleam of light, for it had no outlook but the blank wall of the court, not six feet away. Even without the bars it was too narrow to permit a man to squeeze through, and it afforded us little comfort. Locked in between those massive walls, no sound reached us from the house; it was as silent as the tomb. I returned again and again to my attempts to force the door, although common sense told me that they were futile. Mademoiselle Eudoxie increased my exasperation by her hopeless demeanor. It was manifest that she thought we could easily be forgotten and left to perish in the cellar of a Russian house; but I had some confidence in Von Gaden, and more in Pierrot; I was sure that my fate would be investigated. If there had only been the Boyar Feodor Sergheievitch, I should have felt differently, for he was cast in too stern a mold to waste time or anxiety upon me: the Tartar was too close to the surface to permit any tender feelings; his years of suffering had swept away the finer qualities, leaving only the heroic nature. As I paced that narrow cell in the heat of my anger and disappointment, I still could not avoid picturing the meeting between father and daughter--if it ever happened. With her French blood and her French training, what would Zénaïde Feodorovna think of this rugged man? There could be no foundation of natural affection between them, since they had been separated when Zénaïde was too young to understand the tie which bound her to the stern boyar. What a strange meeting it would be! Mademoiselle had retired to the inner cell and left me in possession of the other, but came now to the door between, and stood looking at me. I noticed again that her curls were hanging limp, as if they sympathized with her discouragement. “I have been thinking,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “and I fear that her uncle’s death will be a bad thing for Zénaïde.” “I should think it would be the best thing that could happen,” I said. She shook her head. “It leaves her to Viatscheslav,” she replied quietly; “he is her betrothed, and her guardian dead, you see what will happen? He and the czarina can force the marriage just as easily as before.” I flung out my hands impatiently. “Why tell me this now?” I cried, “when I am helpless, and there is no refuge but the hope that her father will act more discreetly than I have done.” “Don’t blame yourself, Philippe,” mademoiselle said gently; “we cannot always foresee and prevent every evil. It is true that it would have been better to have left me to my fate, and pressed on in search of the young girl.”