“Katerin!” he cried, holding out his hands to her imploringly. “You know what I mean—you know that your father desired your safety! Then let us forget my promise, but——” “You do not make your promises to keep them, is that it? Then you are not bound by anything, Peter——” She shrugged her shoulders and turned her face from him. “Go on!” he commanded. “You were going to say ‘Peter Petrovitch.’ Why have you turned against me? Katerin, I love you, and even if you will let what has happened stand between us, I want to see that you escape——” “You but want to keep your promise to my father, and you think only of what he may have desired about me!” she retorted with a show of anger, her face aflame. “You have no debt to a Kirsakoff, living or dead, in any way! Do I owe you anything? Perhaps I do, but I can pay you! What price, I ask? What price, Peter Petrovitch Gorekin?” He stood dumfounded and gazed at her. She turned abruptly, and opened the top of a trunk which he had not seen before. “What price?” she demanded. “Price! Price!” he gasped. “Why, you owe me nothing! Please do not insult me—I wished to see you again—I wished to say good-by—please, mistress——” the word escaped him,—the word of deference to the upper class, the word of recognition that she was impossibly above him in the Russian social caste. She let the top of the trunk fall, and putting her hands to her face, burst into tears. Just then Wassili stuck his head through the green curtains and looked in, startled and angry. Peter was about to reassure the _moujik_ that no harm threatened his mistress, but before Peter could speak, Wassili burst through the curtains and he held in his hand a great knife. The Slavic battle rage took possession of Peter at sight of the knife, and all the restraints imposed upon him by civilized life left him in one mad instant. He knew but one thing—he loved Katerin, and Wassili was going to stand in the way. The blade in the _moujik’s_ hand swept away all the fine perplexities which had harassed Peter—these points of honor which he saw as a barrier between him and Katerin. He snapped out his pistol and pointed it at Wassili. “Get back through that curtain!” he commanded, and stepped forward toward Wassili. The _moujik_ pressed back, but did not leave the room. “What’s this?” cried Katerin, turning upon Peter angrily. He made no reply, but shifting his pistol into his left hand, he kept Wassili covered with the weapon. Then he paused for an instant. Before Katerin or Wassili understood his intent, Peter seized her with his right arm and lifted her against his shoulder. With his left elbow under his head, he kept the muzzle of the pistol toward Wassili, and backed out of the room through the open door into his own room. Peter put Katerin upon her feet, just as Wassili moved after him—and Peter beckoned the _moujik_ on. “And what may this be about?” demanded Katerin, staring at Peter as though she suspected that he was bereft of his senses.