For the first time, somewhat released by the throng, I was pushing my way towards the Red Staircase, when a cry rose to my right: “Here is a Naryshkin! Death to the villain!” Springing aside to escape the rush, I looked in that direction, and saw that the rioters were swarming about a carriage which I had previously observed hemmed in by the crowd. The horses had been killed, and the occupants, if there were any, were at the mercy of the mob. An impulse prompted me to push forward for a nearer view, and the next moment, I dashed among the insurgents with such impetuosity, that they gave way and let me reach the carriage, partly because their fury was centered on the man, whom they had dragged out by the hair and were beating to death. I had seen his face before a blow obliterated the features in blood; it was Viatscheslav. I knocked down the rioter who was at the door of the coach, and springing into it, gazed eagerly at the figure which was shrinking in the corner. It was Zénaïde Feodorovna. CHAPTER XXV. IN THE FACE OF DEATH. AT the first moment she did not know me, but shrank away from a supposed rioter, her white face sharply outlined against the dark background. “At last I have found you,” I exclaimed, almost with joy, in spite of our peril. She recognized my voice, and clung to my hand like a child. “Save me!” she cried faintly; “they will tear me to pieces, as they are tearing him.” “I will save you,” I murmured in a low tone; “only trust me and be brave.” I flung her mantle over her head, veiling her face, and opening the other door of the carriage, sprang boldly out, lifting her to the ground. The rioters were still busy dispatching Viatscheslav, who was not quite dead, and they let us take two or three steps unmolested, then, with a howl, surrounded us. Zénaïde shrank towards me, quivering in every limb; I threw my left arm around her, and in the other hand I held my naked sword. “Here is some of the Naryshkin brood!” was the cry. “Cut them down, there is no room here for traitors!” “Stand back!” I exclaimed in a loud tone, and the habit of command served me well, for there was a pause. “Give place here for the lady; she is a ward of the Czarevna Sophia. Woe unto you if you harm a Miloslavsky!” “He lies!” exclaimed one of them, mockingly; “this woman was with Naryshkin. Who is this traitor? One of their minions?” There was a howl of fury from the outer edge of the crowd, but I kept the foremost back by my undaunted front. “I am the envoy of the King of France,” I said calmly, “and if a hair of my head is injured, Russia will have to answer for it. Stand aside! I must take this lady to the czarevna.”