She guided me along the wall until we came to a low door, and here she knocked gently. They were probably watching for fugitives, for it was opened almost at once by a white-haired priest, who let us in silently and barred the door behind us. But even as we entered, there was a sound of a fierce tumult from the front of the building which arrested our movements. “What is it?” cried Zénaïde, her voice breaking a little with terror, for it was like the roar of wild beasts. The priest stood listening, his face pale. “Alas!” he exclaimed, as we heard the outer doors crash in, “some one must have betrayed him. Athanasius Naryshkin is hidden under the altar. If they find him, nothing can save him.” He rushed towards the curtained alcove behind the altar, through which he could enter the chancel, and leaving Zénaïde for a moment, I followed him. It was too late to do anything to rescue Naryshkin; not even the priests could save him by appealing to the sanctity of the house of God. It was a horrid scene; the outer doors had been forced, and the church was crowded with a frantic mob. The light in the cathedral was dim, but those terrible blood-stained faces stood out against the gloomy background with awful distinctness, and the blood dripped from their spears upon the floor. On the altar steps stood a figure which I recognized with righteous indignation, and regret that I had not slain him. It was the diminutive apelike form of Homyak, and it was he who had directed the movements of the searching party, his the first yell of triumph as they dragged the czarina’s unfortunate brother from under the altar. The sight of the defenseless man in the hands of these wretches fired my blood, and I sprang forward; but a young priest caught me in his arms and pressed me back towards the alcove. “Fool!” he whispered in my ear; “there are eight hundred men in the nave, you cannot save him. It is death to go down the steps.” I realized that he had rescued me, but it frenzied me to hear Naryshkin’s death-cry. Already a dozen spears had been struck into his quivering flesh, and he writhed, dying, on the floor of the cathedral. The thought of Zénaïde recalled me to my senses, and I hurried back to her. “Come,” I said, “the church is in the hands of the mob, and we cannot hide here.” I unfastened the door, and we emerged upon a quiet scene, for the rioters were all at the front of the building or within it. While I hesitated upon my next step, Zénaïde came nearer to me and grasped my sleeve. “M. le Vicomte,” she said, “have you seen Mademoiselle Eudoxie? Do you know where she is?” I started; I had entirely forgotten the good woman. “She is in the Ramodanofsky house,” I replied; I had been on the point of saying “your father’s house,” but recollected in time not to shock her with the sudden revelation. “Holy Virgin!” she cried, “they are murdering the boyars; they will go there and kill her. We must save her.”