Zénaïde did not reply; I think that it flashed upon her that if the brothers were cast in similar mold, her father might be engaged in the bloody work at the Kremlin,--a thought that had occurred to me since I had seen Michael in the mob. We walked on in silence, approaching the house at last without having met one of the rioters. To my surprise, the gates were open, and we entered the empty court. It occurred to us both that this silence and desertion was strange; and Zénaïde, running on ahead of me, tried the great doors, and finding them fastened, we passed around to the postern in the wing. CHAPTER XXVI. LOVE AND FIRE. THE postern was also fastened, and Zénaïde knocked repeatedly without effect. “The house is deserted,” she said, turning a frightened look upon me; “where can mademoiselle be? What has happened?” I was puzzled myself, and at loss to answer her. “There must be some way to get in,” I said, examining the windows. One to the right of the door was not securely shuttered, and I got it open with but little difficulty, and climbed in. I found the postern securely barred, and opening it, admitted Zénaïde. Together we went up the stairs to mademoiselle’s room, only to find it vacant. The whole house seemed as silent as the grave. Hurriedly we searched the place, opening door after door, only to discover silence and solitude. Not a sound greeted our ears, not a sign remained of habitation other than the furniture, already lightly coated with the dust which had been gathering since the night of Zénaïde’s flight. Going into the main building, our search was equally fruitless; descending to the kitchen and even the cellar, we found no trace of either mademoiselle or the boyar. Yet there was no indication of violence, the house had not been attacked; it was as quiet and undisturbed as it was desolate. We had scarcely spoken to each other; but now, as we returned a second time to mademoiselle’s room, Zénaïde broke the silence. “I cannot understand it,” she said thoughtfully; “there was no safer place for mademoiselle, and it could not be that she went out on such a day, for they must have known of the riot here before the mob reached the Kremlin.” “She must be safe,” I replied reassuringly; “this house has not been disturbed, and she must have left it voluntarily.” “I do not think she can have gone to seek me; mademoiselle is far too timid,” she said musingly. “I have brought you on a fool’s errand, M. le Vicomte; but, at least, we are out of danger.” “Mademoiselle, you are unkind,” I retorted quickly, thinking of her rebuke to my caution in the Kremlin. She started, and the blood rushed over her fair face. “I beg a thousand pardons, M. le Vicomte,” she faltered. “I never intended an attack upon your courage; I owe it far too much. I can never thank you enough for my deliverance.”