I thought of the murdered father and the defenseless girl, and then I counted the windows; the lighted one was the third from the main building, and on the second floor. How could I reach it? Not by climbing; then I bethought myself of the postern in that very wing, and went feeling my way along in search of it, my naked sword in my hand. There were strange thoughts in my heart just then, and it would have cost the boyar dear to meet me in that gloomy court. I found the postern and tried it; to my joy, it yielded to my hand, and I found myself in a dark, narrow hall. For a moment I stood nonplussed, not knowing which way to turn; but as luck would have it, a noise to the left sent me to the right, and finding a door, I opened it and stumbled upon a staircase. A light in the hall above served to make the darkness visible, and I crept cautiously up the stairs, a step at a time. Before I gained the top, the closing of a door sounded somewhat sharply, and with it all gleam of light went out, so I knew that it had proceeded from a room. Reaching the head of the stairs, I paused to take my bearings. Coming in at the door, I had turned to the right, so the stairs had led me toward the main building, and the window was the third away from it; I must turn now to the left. With this small clue, I felt my way along the corridor, passing two doors, and pausing at the third. There was a light within, for it shone through the chink at the bottom, and I heard a woman’s voice. Remembering only the shadow-drama on the wall, and the orphan’s helplessness, I opened the door, without a thought of the strangeness of my presence and my errand. The light within fell full upon me on the threshold, and on my drawn sword. There was confusion and a startled cry, one woman rushing away to the farther door; but the other remained where she was,--a slender young girl, standing in the center of the room, her pose one of dignity, her fair hair falling in heavy braids on either shoulder, and a red mark showing angrily on her white cheek. It was Zénaïde Feodorovna. CHAPTER V. ZÉNAÏDE. UNDER Zénaïde’s startled and half-frightened gaze, I felt myself a fool. My ardent knight-errantry dwindled, and I stood revealed, a rash intruder on the privacy of a Russian household. Zénaïde was the first to recover her self-possession; she had divined my nationality, for she addressed me in French. “Monsieur has made some strange error,” she said in a dignified way, “and stumbled upon the private quarter of the house. His errand is with my uncle, no doubt.” I was at loss to explain my blundering ardor. “Mademoiselle,” I stammered, feeling my face burn, “I had cause to think you were in need of assistance--I--pardon me, I do but increase my awkwardness.” She looked at me strangely, a new emotion dyeing her cheek with scarlet. “Monsieur is kind,” she said a little haughtily; “I am indebted to my uncle’s friend, I presume, monsieur--”