"Yes; because I am her partner." The roulette ball spun round. Some one was coming. All hurriedly returned to their places. Krizsanowski did not deserve the scornful smile with which Ryleieff had silently received his great utterance--for, indeed, it was a great utterance--"You others are only the chessmen; we two are the players." But so it was. The others only saw single moves; these two saw the whole game. Krizsanowski had also plainly observed--although he made as if he saw nothing--with what painful anxiety Zeneida was moved to keep Pushkin away from the dangerous chess-board. Such a head is too costly for a "pawn"; perhaps too precious to be staked for a whole nation--the whole world--certainly in her estimation. She had chased him away as if he were the evil one; now she had hastened after him to prevent his coming back. She knew that the heads of all those taking part in the conspiracy would fall prey to the executioner did it not succeed, and Pushkin's must not be among them. And yet poets have their whims. Should Jakuskin on the way reveal anything of the fateful conference which had taken place round Zeneida's roulette-table, the very charm of danger would bring Pushkin back. If he learned that it was no mere academical discussion, but a council of war, which was being held, he would break open her doors to take his share in it. Pushkin was still in the sulks. While Jakuskin hastened from one cabinet to another in search of Diabolka, he had thrown himself upon a sofa in the palm-grove, replying to all the blandishments of passing fair ones. "Leave me alone. I don't want you." "Nor me either?" asked a well-known voice, at sound of which another, fairer, world seemed to open to him. And Zeneida, seating herself beside him on the couch, asked, "Are you angry with me?" "Confess. It was you who put Ryleieff up to insulting me?" "In what way, dear friend?" "I will not submit to be called Byron! I am Pushkin, or no one. Men may say that my verses are common Russian brandy which gets into the head, but no one shall presume to call them the dregs of an English teapot. I may be only a hillock, but I will not pose as a miniature Chimborazo. And it was your whisper to Ryleieff that did it." "Yes; so it was." "To drive me away?" "To drive you away." "I am not worthy, then, to join the society of the Bojars!" "What care I for the Bojars and the whole Szojusz Blagadenztoiga? I give them shelter--and _basta_!" "And am I not worthy to singe my wings in the fire of your eyes?" "It would convert you to ice." "Are you so cold, then?" "Cold as the northern light." "Have you no heart?" "According to anatomy I have such a thing; but it has other functions than those ascribed to it by poets. That of which you speak has, Gall tells us, its seat in the skull, in No. 27 portion of the brain, and is not developed in my organization." "Do not kill me with your phrenology. You know what love is--"