The truth of what she said had already dawned upon me, but I could not help mademoiselle while Zénaïde was in such peril. “As soon as you are safe,” I said, “I will go and protect Mademoiselle Eudoxie.” But she was animated by the spirit of her race, and her womanly fears had subsided at the thought of another’s danger. “I will go now, M. de Brousson,” she exclaimed, her eyes shining with a determined fire. “We can get out; the crowd has been drawn away from yonder gate. We cannot go back. Hear them howl about the palace! What is it that they are shouting now?” I bent my head and listened. Distinctly I heard Von Gaden’s name coupled with cries of “traitor” and “poison.” “They want the physician’s life,” Zénaïde said; “I heard them, before you came, crying for him, saying that he had murdered the Czar Feodor. But come, M. le Vicomte, we have not a moment to lose.” “Mademoiselle,” I cried in a fever of anxiety, “you cannot go, you must not go! It is dangerous--perhaps certain death--” She stopped, and turned to look at me; her mantle had fallen back so that I could see plainly the pale, beautiful face, the brilliant light in the blue eyes. “M. de Brousson,” she said, in a low tone, “I am wrong to imperil your life. Leave me; I must go and save her, but it is too much to ask of you.” “Mademoiselle,” I remonstrated, “do not imagine that I would fail to do my duty because of any personal risk. If I have ever served you, forbear such a taunt as that.” “Pardon me,” she murmured faintly; “I spoke in haste, but--” I had drawn her arm through mine.