“Yes, you are doing your duty as you see it,” said Sonya. “But even if we cannot agree, father, can we not admit that we all have tried to do what we have thought best for our own country, and part without blame or bitterness?” She took Borodin’s arm and drew him forward, front to front with his infuriate sire and judge. “Since we are parting forever, won’t you and Vladimir part as friends, father?” The general gazed at his son--at his daughter. They were pale, but their eyes were clear, their mien tranquilly intrepid. Their calm acceptance of their fate sobered his wrath, but stern judgment still sat upon his brow. At length he spoke. “And you are willing to die?” he asked his son. “Since it must be so--yes.” “And you, Sonya?” “I do not want to die, but I am quite ready.” “And do you not regret what you have done?” “I only regret,” said she, “that it all turned out so ill.” There was a knock at the dungeon’s door, and the governor called that the fifteen minutes were at an end. The general paled. A spasmodic twitching rippled across his stern, strong face. “I must go now,” he said. Sonya stretched out to him both her hands and her eyes filled with tears. “Good-bye, father. And in the--the future--try to see that the cause we died for----” There was a breaking, a surging up, within him, and suddenly his arms opened and he clutched her to him. “No! No! You shall not die!” he cried convulsively. “You shall not die--neither of you! I’ll move heaven and earth! I’ll arrange it somehow. How, I do not know--but I’ll arrange it!” He kissed her again and again, tears flushing his old eyes; and he embraced and kissed his disowned son. Then he tore himself from their arms, saying that the time was short, that he must make haste, and that they should have no fear. At the door he paused a moment to regain his calm. “I am ready, Colonel Kavelin,” he called. The bolts grated back and he strode out into the governor’s company, with the cold, haughty, indifferent bearing that becomes an autocrat. CHAPTER XXIV THE PRINCE PLAYS TRUMPS As the general strode through the cell-lined corridors he swiftly planned his course. He had power to condemn, but in a case of such flagrant guilt he had not power to pardon. He would return to his home, send the governor an official order staying the execution, and then hasten straight to the Czar and beg for clemency. He would keep the identity of the prisoners secret, save only from his royal master, and thus, barring misfortune, he and his name would emerge from the situation without public disgrace. He came out into the court, where he had left his sleigh, to find standing there a score of cavalry. The officer in charge, a captain whom he knew, rode up to him, dismounted, and saluting respectfully, handed him an envelope. “I was sent to give this to Your Excellency,” he said. “Thank you.” The general started to put it in his coat.