“It is your father, Zénaïde,” I exclaimed. “The image of her mother,” he said, as if to himself. Then, without another word, he lifted her in his arms. “Follow me, M. de Brousson,” he said calmly; “the fire will cut off the stairs in five minutes.” And he went out with his daughter in his arms, Zénaïde looking over his shoulder at me with imploring eyes. He carried her as easily as he would have carried an infant, and led the way, Pierrot and I following closely. The hall was thick with smoke, and I saw why he had wasted no time in words. It was life or death, and I could not but admire his iron composure, even while I fretted that the task of protecting Zénaïde had been taken from me by one who had a better right. He took us towards the other side of the house and descended the stairs by the rooms that had been mademoiselle’s. Every step brought us nearer to the howling demons below, and I saw Zénaïde’s hands clutch his shoulders as if she doubted his ability to face the mob; but he never paused; down, down we went. Pierrot and I had drawn our swords, but both Feodor’s arms were about his daughter, and his stern face set with a resolution that no peril could shake. We could hear the rioters breaking furniture and smashing glass, and now and then their voices rose in fierce profane contention over some coveted spoil. They were crowding into this wing, for the fire was eating its way through the rest of the house, and even here the smoke was crawling in. Another turn, and we could see below. It was a wild scene. The contents of the rooms, smashed and heaped together, were being thrown into the hall, and a group of rioters were dragging out a cask of liquor from the cellar. Two or three brawny fellows were coming in at the door as the boyar advanced towards it. I tightened my grip on my sword, expecting that we should have to cut our way through; but Ramodanofsky swept on without hesitation, and they stood perplexed, not knowing what to do. “Stand aside!” he thundered. “Why so fast, master?” one of them exclaimed insolently. “Hush!” cried another, plucking at his sleeve, “it is Lykof.” “Stand aside, in the name of the Czar Ivan Alexeivitch!” exclaimed the disguised boyar; and to my surprise, they let us pass, although they stared angrily at me, as if uncertain of their recognition. There were only a few stragglers in the court, and keeping close together, we followed Ramodanofsky to a low gate behind the wing that I had never seen. It was already unfastened, and we passed out into a narrow and deserted alley. As soon as we were safely beyond the gate, the boyar placed Zénaïde on her feet and spoke a few words to her, which I did not hear; but I saw her glance up into his eyes with a look of awakening feeling. He drew her hand through his arm and walked on more slowly. Meanwhile, I had been reflecting upon the situation, and quickening my steps, I joined them. “Have you a refuge selected, M. Ramodanofsky?” I asked.