“Have mercy on me!” shrieked the wretch, suddenly writhing in his bonds until he faced me. “Have mercy on me, Frenchman! save me, and I will confess all--all!” Loathsome as the fellow was, I felt some pity. I have never loved the thought of torture; an equal fight, a swift and just retribution, but never such a scene as this! Beneath the Russian noble’s cold exterior I saw the savage goaded to hatred and revenge by bitter wrong: relentless, inexorable, resistless. “Save me,” shrieked the wretched steward, “and you shall save her!” “Do you hear that?” cried Ramodanofsky. “He admits his knowledge of my child’s fate! Confess, you villain, or I will burn you with fire!” I came into the room and spoke to him in French. “I pray your forbearance, monsieur,” I said; “the fellow is too miserable a coward to confess under such a pressure. Leave him to me but a moment, and I think I can promise you the whole truth.” “It is easier to cut his throat if he refuses,” exclaimed the boyar, impatiently. “Time presses, monsieur,” I said quietly, “and he is willing to confess to me.” Ramodanofsky stood aside with a gesture of courtesy. “It is your house, M. le Vicomte,” he said with dignity, and made Michael go with him, so that in a moment I was left alone with the prisoner, the red-hot poker gleaming lividly upon the hearthstone. CHAPTER XIX. POLOTSKY. FOR a few moments I stood regarding the wretch in silence. He was a picture of abject and villainous misery; knowing that he was in the hands of his most determined enemies, he fancied a fate as hideous as his own crimes. A man who has been hard and brutal to others is, in his hour of reckoning, the most abject coward on earth. Pierrot had fastened him securely in his chair, and he lay there writhing in his bonds, his face livid, and the cold sweat standing in beads on his brow. To me he was simply repulsive; I felt no pity then, and he saw it, and groaned aloud in his despair. “Be brief, fellow,” I said coldly; “I have already waited five minutes. Delay will avail you nothing. If you do not confess to me, there are others to find a shorter means to wag your tongue.” He shuddered, and clenched the chair with his hands. “Save me,” he gasped, “and I will tell you all I know! Save me from those men!” “I will make no conditions,” I retorted calmly. “If you confess, I will not have you tortured here; if you do not, I will turn you over to your old master, and he may do as he pleases with you.” The wretch stared at me wildly, without speaking, and I began to suspect that he was inventing some fable. “Speak!” I said sharply; “you cannot have a moment longer. Where is Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky?” “Ah, that is just what I cannot tell, and you will kill me!” he wailed so abjectly that I began to believe that he really could not enlighten me. “I only know that the Boyar Vladimir had her taken away from Dr. von Gaden’s house.” “Taken whither?” I demanded fiercely; “a lie will not save you.”