ZÉNAÏDE came and stood beside me, and we watched those blue wreaths increase until the foot of the staircase was clouded, and we had to draw back for a breath of air. “Let us go to the window, Philippe,” she said in that quiet tone which seemed to voice her despair. “It is horrible, but perhaps it is better than to perish by their hands or our own.” “Alas, my love!” I exclaimed hoarsely, “it is but a choice of evils, and how bitter it is to die at such a time! If it were not for you, I think I could face it cheerfully--I--” She put her hand on my arm and looked up with a wonderful tenderness in her face. “Remember your own words, Philippe,” she said softly; “we can die together.” I clasped her in my arms, and we stood listening to the tumult below; the mob was loose, and the house was being searched. Their cries of rage and triumph came up to us, and all the while the smoke increased. How long could it last? And which would find us first? A sudden noise at the other end of the hall startled us; doors were opened and closed, and an uneven step came rushing on. They were coming. We looked into each other’s eyes. “Now, Philippe!” she whispered, touching my weapon. “Oh, _mon Dieu_!” I cried, “how can I do it?” “It is better,” she said, her white face quivering; “you swore it, Philippe. Oh, my love, adieu!” She kissed me of her own accord and then stepped back. “Be quick, Philippe!” she cried. The footsteps were near at hand. Even in my agony, I listened; there was but one man. If she must die, her life should cost them dear. I made a sign to her, and kept my eyes upon the door; my pistol was ready cocked. The first rioter who crossed that threshold would be a dead man. At that instant I heard a voice, a familiar voice:-- “M. de Brousson! M. le Vicomte!” it called almost at the door; and in a moment Pierrot stood before us,--Pierrot, covered with dust and blood, but stolidly respectful still. “The saints be praised!” he cried; “we had given you up for lost.” The relief was so great that at the first I had no words to utter. At the sound of a friendly French voice Zénaïde had broken down, and stood there quivering from head to foot. “How came you here?” I exclaimed, at last. “With the Boyar Ramodanofsky,” Pierrot replied. “And we have not a moment to lose, M. le Vicomte; the house is burning in the kitchen wing. Come down as quickly as you can.” “The rioters!” gasped Zénaïde, looking at him in amazement. “The boyar can get us through,” Pierrot said; and then, to my astonishment, I noticed that he wore the full uniform of the Streltsi. Some one else was coming along the hall, and he stood aside to let the new-comer enter--Zénaïde saw him before I did, and from her eyes I knew who it was. Feodor Sergheievitch came in as easily as if such scenes were his daily experiences. But at the sight of his daughter, he paused, looking at her strangely; and for the first time, I realized that he had not seen her since she was a child.