I bowed in acknowledgment, not without a feeling of pleasure that Zénaïde’s father was already in my debt. As he stood before us now, in his true character, I was more than ever impressed by the man’s dignity, the stern resolution of his brow and mouth, the traces of a handsome youth lost by rugged usage and the disfiguring scar. Yet I was conscious too of a new feeling, which I could not analyze: I was no longer Zénaïde’s only chance of escape; here was her natural protector, the one who would have the first voice in deciding my fate. I could not but wonder how much he knew, or imagined, of my feeling for his daughter, meanwhile endeavoring to play the host with what grace I could summon in the midst of my anxiety. I invited my two guests to partake of a light repast, which I noticed the boyar ate calmly, like a man who was accustomed to facing anxieties and difficulties, and whose nerves could remain unshaken in the midst of disaster; even Von Gaden showed more excitement, and I only made a pretence of eating as a matter of courtesy. “Your appetite is poor, M. le Vicomte,” Ramodanofsky remarked calmly, glancing at my plate. I made some excuse, speaking of the anxiety of the moment. “It makes no difference, M. de Brousson,” he replied quietly. “I am a good deal of a fatalist. If evil is to happen, it will happen; to eat or to fast will not avert it. If you had been through my bitter experience, you would face any crisis with more composure. Fear or suffering, in anticipation, is a poor method of borrowing trouble, and avails nothing. The only way to conquer misfortune is to meet it with indomitable will.” Looking at his severe scarred face, I could readily fancy his manner of meeting adversity. “M. de Brousson is young yet,” Von Gaden remarked, “and young blood is easily stirred.” I heard footsteps on the stair, and rising from my chair, stood looking at the two men before me. “_Mon Dieu_, gentlemen!” I exclaimed, “is it a light matter? I could face death, methinks, with a composure equal to your own, but here is a terrible situation. Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky has disappeared, and we cannot tell what fate may have overtaken her!” Ramodanofsky rose too, and a look of deep trouble swept over his hard features, refuting my momentary thought that all natural feeling was dead within him. While we stood thus, the door was flung open, and Pierrot, with a disordered and mud-splashed dress, stood upon the threshold. “M. le Vicomte,” he said in a tone of great excitement, addressing me in French, and unconscious that both the other two understood him, “we have trapped the steward, and if you do not come down at once, that Russian devil will fricassee him alive before we can extract any information from him!” Feodor laughed, startling Pierrot so that he stood staring. “My good fellow,” the boyar said to him in French, “you would fricassee the steward too, if you had as heavy a debt against him as poor Michael has.”