The old man’s reverence for the sanctity of an oath was rendered stronger by a tinge of superstition. Moreover, he thought this world--where apparently and for the present the infidel Nyemtzi were victorious--not such a safe and happy home that true hearts need mourn to leave it. Perhaps it would even be well for him to take his dearest treasure with him to the better land, and bring Maria Petrovna the little one she had intrusted to his care. Thus it was that when once more Feodor whispered softly, “And I too, dädushka,--I am glad to die for the Czar,” he only answered, “For our monarch, our country, and our God. May he accept the sacrifice, and receive our souls into his kingdom.” Just then a servant hastily entered the room. “Father,” he said, in great agitation, “a horseman is galloping through the streets, crying aloud that the French are coming. Their standards may be seen, he says, upon the Sparrow Hill. And, father,” he added, “the kibitka is ready, according to your orders.” “Then give me thine arm, Feodor,” said the old man rising. “Our hour has come.” CHAPTER XV. THE MARTYR CITY. “Thou to thy rest art gone, High heart; and what are we, While o’er our heads the storm sweeps on, That we should weep for thee?” The slow hours that had dragged their weary length since the evacuation of the doomed city began, seemed a lifetime to Ivan. He almost felt as if the suspense, the dull, hushed lull of expectation that was not hope and yet was scarcely fear, would never end. But the end came at length, and from that hour events followed each other with tremendous, bewildering rapidity. Ivan was in the Kremlin, distributing arms to the workmen whom he found there, when some one cried that the French were fording the Moskva (the Russian general, Miloradovitch, having broken down the bridges). Ivan sprang to the nearest point of observation, and saw some horsemen in fantastic uniforms, and bringing with them a couple of guns, actually crossing the stream. A personage, splendidly attired and surrounded by a brilliant staff, was directing their movements, and apparently preparing to follow them. This, though Ivan knew it not, was Murat, King of Naples, who was leading the French vanguard, thirsting for glory and plunder, and already devouring with covetous eyes the fabulous treasures of the Kremlin. Ivan returned to his companions. “God has delivered them into our hands,” he said. “We will let them cross the ford, and then--”