With determined tread he hastened up the staircase. The two grenadiers on guard at the door of the Czar's room, saluting, let him pass. In the anteroom was the officer on duty, who greeted him by name as a friend. "I seek the Czar, with an urgent despatch." "Go through. You will find there Adjutant Diebitsch, who will announce you." Jakuskin opened the door. At the same time the door was opened from the inside, and the man coming out and the one going in met on the threshold. Jakuskin trembled. The face before him had _green eyes_. Or was it only his fancy? The man was wearing a Tartar costume; his expression at once so singular, awe-inspiring, defiant, arrogant! Contempt, scorn, and sorrow mingled in his look; his eyes glittered like green beetles. As he pushed by, an icy shudder passed through Jakuskin. Jakuskin staggered. "I say!" he exclaimed to the officer, as he pointed to the man passing through, "who is that fellow?" "Some messenger or other." "Did you not notice what green eyes he has?" "'Pon my word, no. What the deuce do his green eyes concern you?" Jakuskin passed on to the inner room. Here he found Diebitsch sitting at a table writing. He seemed in haste, for he did not raise his head. "Am I permitted to go in to the Czar?" "You are." "Is he alone?" "Alone." "What is he doing?" "Sleeping." "I am the bearer of an urgent despatch to him. May I wake him?" "Wake him." The general did not look up from his writing--did not observe to whom he was speaking. Jakuskin resolutely approached the door of the adjoining room. It seemed remarkable that the man he had addressed had not perceived, by the wild beating of his heart, what he was meditating! A door only separated him from his victim--and that door stood open! The Czar was already very ill on his return to Taganrog. Still he would hear of no remedies. It is a characteristic trait of Russian czars to defy illness. They will not believe that Death (their chief agent), who has been so long in their service, who at their word of command has mown down rows of men like ears of corn, should ever--brandishing his scythe backward--cut down his lord and master. They are far too proud to concede that the pale spectre should ever see their weakness, hear their groans, limit their wills. Even Death, when he knocks at their door, they would bid to "wait."