She stood in the center of the room, her face white and composed, and her blue eyes gleaming with the fire of her race. I saw that, in the extremity, she would meet death with the resolution of a soldier’s daughter. I had never loved her more than at that moment, when I saw her stand there, facing death, and a peril worse than death, with the unfaltering courage of a noble soul. I took her hand in mine and kissed it. “Mademoiselle,” I said in a low voice, “I swear to you that you shall not fall into their hands alive.” She did not withdraw her hand, and her blue eyes looked steadily into mine. “I thank you from my heart,” she said firmly; “I can die cheerfully, as becomes a Ramodanofsky.” Below, the blows upon the door seemed to shake the house itself. I left her and went to the window over the door; opening the shutters, I leaped upon the sill. In a moment some one saw me, and there was a yell, followed by a hoarse roar from the mob gathering, as I had anticipated, beneath the window to watch me. It was a large party of rioters; the courtyard was crowded, and they overflowed into the street. The foremost of the party had just secured a heavy beam, and were preparing to use it as a battering-ram against the door beneath; but at the sight of me overhead, they paused to stare and listen. There were some of the Streltsi as ringleaders, but a large portion was the off-scouring of the city, ripe for mischief and rapine; armed with spears and hatchets and clubs, their faces perfect types of low ferocity; arrested in their attack only for the moment, and furious at the delay. It was a sight to freeze a man’s blood to face it alone, and with the thought of the young girl behind me, it drove me mad. A lamb at the mercy of hyenas! Before I could speak, they began to shout to me to come down and unfasten the door. “We have come to see the Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky!” they cried mockingly; “and if we are not presently made welcome, he will find our greeting warm.” I made a gesture to them to listen, and there was a momentary pause, more dreadful perhaps than their cries, and I could see their savage faces and their bloody hands. “The Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch is dead,” I said, in a loud voice; “he died by his own hand yesterday, and there is no one here.” A howl of baffled fury and derision greeted my announcement; I saw that they did not believe me. “Open the door, good fellow!” shrieked a leader, derisively, “so that we can attend the funeral. The boyar loved the people; let the people have his body.” “I swear to you that the boyar is dead,” I shouted, “and his body is not here. I know not where they have taken it.”