They all went into the next room, where candles in the tall silver candlesticks had already been lighted. Between them stood a font, and near it a woman, commonly dressed, and holding in her arms something wrapped in white. “Begin, Holy Father,” said Viazimski, pointing to the font and to what the woman held. Father Peter put on his vestments, took the censer from the hands of Tchernishoff, opened the Prayer-Book, and began the ceremony. The sponsors were the finely dressed, affected wife of the commandant, and the général procureur himself. They gave the newly christened babe the name of Alexander. The ceremony was finished; the _commandantsha_, with the babe in her arms, continued turning and twisting about, trying with her airs and graces to attract the attention of the général procureur to herself and her rustling silk dress. “Whose child?” asked the priest, lowering his voice, and respectfully inclining the cross towards the godfather, who drew near. Viazimski looked at him, quite taken aback. “Under what name must I inscribe him in the register?” asked Father Peter. “Who are the parents?” “But is that absolutely necessary?” asked the général procureur, in a displeased voice. “As you may order.… By right, the ceremony requires it. Who knows what may happen in the future?… We are bound.…” “Right,” said Viazimski. “Alexander Alexéef, son of Chesmenski.” The priest silently, with a trembling hand, inscribed the name in the baptismal register. “Now another Sacrament.… Here is your guide,” said the Prince Viazimski sighing, pointing to the smart commandant, who was standing drawn up to his full height. “I hope that everything will be fulfilled according to orders.” With these words, he left the room and drove home. Father Peter, holding the chalice to his breast, followed Tchernishoff. His heart beat faster when, having crossed the little bridge in the interior, they entered a special yard, surrounded by a high wall. He at once understood that they had entered the fatal Ravelin of Alexéef.… The priest and his guide, mounting a few steps, entered a long, dimly lighted corridor, and stopped before a low door. “She is here,” whispered the priest to himself. The door led into a rather low but very comfortable room. There were no sentinels now. The candle near the bed shed a feeble light on the other part of the room, through a purposely arranged silk curtain. The room was close, and a faint odour of medicine and incense pervaded it. The priest glanced around, and silently stepped behind the screen. The sick girl lay motionless on her bed, but was quite conscious. She slowly raised her eyes to the visitor, and recognising that it was the priest by his dress, gently sighed, and held out her hand. “I am very, very glad, Holy Father,” she whispered in French. “Perhaps you would prefer German?” “_Oui! Oui, comme il vous plaît_,” stammered Father Peter, shivering involuntarily at the sound of that deep, broken contralto.