Despairing, the girl, flinging herself at Daimona's feet, clasped her knees, and, sobbing, implored for mercy. "Ah, you abomination, that's the place for you!" cried Daimona through her clinched teeth; and seizing the girl at her feet by her long plaits, she shrieked to Schinko, "Now, have at her!" With one spring the gypsy, like a panther, was upon them, and, seizing Daimona by the throat with his left hand, with his right he whipped out his dagger. Terrified, Daimona released her hold of Diabolka and defended herself with one arm; the serf's dagger had pierced her shoulder, the blood spouted high from it. "Heh! varlets! seize him! help!" stormed the woman. But not a person stirred among the crowd. Daimona saw that she was left to herself. She was a powerful woman who knew how to fight; so, freeing herself from the gypsy's grasp, she pushed him from her, sprang off the tribune, and rushed towards the castle steps, Schinko after her. Nor did a hand stir to hinder the serf. The crowd, the whole body of servants, looked on, and saw Schinko dash after the mistress and wound her afresh. The woman, turning upon him, began to wrestle with her pursuer; his dagger was plunged again and again into her breast. Once more she succeeded in pushing back her adversary, and, darting into the midst of her women servants, shouted, "Help! protect me!" The women put their hands to their ears that they might not hear her cries. They all hated her. Then she was seen flying down the long corridor, screaming and shrieking, her murderer close upon her heels. Still no one went to the rescue. At the extreme end of the corridor was the picture of a saint. Thither she fled, and fell down before it in beseeching attitude. But the saint did not stir a hand to protect her. Then rushing to the parapet of the balcony, she attempted in vain to spring from it. The murderer slowly comes down the stone steps into the courtyard. A path is made for him. He ascends the bridal tribune. There, her face to the ground, lies a girl motionless with terror, shame, and despair. Close to her the wedding garments. The murderer wipes the blood off his dagger with the bridal veil, and, taking the girl by the hand, raises her to her feet. They look each other in the eyes. One look, like a couple of wild wolves. No need for speech! Then they run, hand in hand, into the steppe, into the woods--anywhere. No one seeks to hold them back. They were never seen again. Who would attempt to find two wolves escaped from captivity, in their native lair, amid the dwellers of the endless steppes, whether in forest or jungle? Only once did the two call a halt, where Diabolka, having reached her gypsy encampment, wrote the letter to Jakuskin, in which she related the tragi-comedy of Grusino, and of which a copy fell into the hands of the Czar's favorite, acquainting him with the horrors that had taken place. The starosts of Grusino had not had the courage to give him the tidings.