‘Oh, foolish Chelminsky!’ exclaimed Mazeppa, ‘that is going out of thy way, indeed, to find cause of quarrel with an old friend. I am attracted by the wench, true enough; but must all men sigh for the same woman? Fear not, so little do I suspect thee that I entreat thee to show thy friendship for me by finding this girl, or helping me to find her.’

‘And this fellow—the spy who followed me: you know nothing of him?’

‘Nothing, my friend—what should I know? I may have my opinion—namely, that he was a robber and no spy; but as for knowing—what should I know?’

‘Swear it by thy horse and lance!’

‘Oh, most suspicious and unfriendly of friends, I do so swear, if so it must be!’

‘Good; there is no more need for suspicion. If I catch the fellow following again, I shall kill him at sight for a mere cutpurse, or rather for a would-be cutpurse.’

‘Do so, my friend,’ said Mazeppa; ‘he deserves his fate for having come, in a manner, between old friends.’

‘Verily, Mazeppa,’ I thought, as I left my fox, ‘thou art a most wondrously gifted liar!’ For indeed he had lied thoroughly, even taking our Cossack oath in witness to his falsehood, without the twitching of an eyelid.

This day I went out to visit Vera once again at her monastery, but though I looked constantly and carefully for followers I observed none, and it is certain that I was not watched. I reached the sanctuary in safety, moreover, and was received first by the Superior, who was pleased to see me.

‘For thy fair friend perishes to hear news of all that is happening at home and at Court,’ she said; ‘and, if the truth must be known, I believe she will not be averse to see her preserver and knight, being somewhat anxious for his safety lest he be suspected of capturing and concealing her.’

‘Let her come, good mother,’ I said, ‘for indeed I begin to think there is no sight on earth that delights me more than her fair face.’

‘Ah—ah! said I not so?’ murmured the good soul, gently patting my arm as she left the room to fetch Vera. ‘So the faithless maid who preferred her chance at the terem to thy assured love is already forgotten? Oh, man, man! this Vera is too good for so faithless a swain!’

‘It is not my fault, mother,’ I said; ‘do not speak me ill to Vera. I do not fawn where I am beaten; I can show a true heart when I am shown one.’

‘Well, well! hers is golden, my friend, little doubt of that: he who wins it must prize it too highly to give her in exchange a thing of dross.’

Vera entered, blushing and excited.

‘Is all well?’ she said. ‘Good Chelminsky, tell me quickly!’

‘Well, and very well,’ I replied; ‘though it almost went very ill, for I was spied upon yesterday, being suspected of knowing your whereabouts.’

‘Suspected! and by whom?’

‘By a very cunning person, whose wiles are infinite, and whom I should name “the father of lies” if that title had not already been appropriated by an ally of his——’

‘But who—who?’ she cried.

‘Oh, who but Mazeppa!’ and when I told Vera the whole story of the spy and his confession and Mazeppa’s denial, she agreed that this was indeed a deceiver of whom it was necessary to beware.

‘But what of the palace and of my father?’ continued Vera. ‘Have I been missed by the Regent, and what has my father done? for he, of course, has long since discovered that I have left home.’

‘At the palace they are so busy weeding out the plainer blooms that the fairest flowers are for the present neglected; therefore, you have not been asked for. As for your father, I hear privately that he is most distressed that you should attempt to evade the glorious destiny which Providence and his own parental solicitude have opened to you. He has forbidden any word to go out concerning your disappearance, lest it should be known at the palace. He reckons upon finding you before your disappearance is known to the Regent.’

‘Oh, for the love of Christ, good Chelminsky, he must not—he must not! Were you careful in your going this day? Are you sure you were not spied upon and your destination noted? My father is as cunning, maybe, as Mazeppa himself.’

‘I am certain that my coming was not observed. I frightened my former friend too well; he remained in safety at home, be sure, and there was no other. I tell you I doubled and dissembled in my going as a bear does at the first snowfall, when he chooses his winter’s lair and would put trackers off the scent.’

Vera laughed for joy, her apprehension relieved. ‘Thank God if that is so, and thank you also, good Chelminsky; be sure your kindness is not forgotten. But what steps has my father taken to find me?’ she asked, growing grave again suddenly.

‘He has sent word to your country estate. Your nurse declared that you had threatened to go there if pressed.’

‘It is true, it is true!’ cried Vera, clapping her hands. ‘I did so. Oh, Chelminsky, it is a four days’ ride at the quickest, and four back—that is eight days. By the time they return the Tsar may have made his choice, and I shall be safe.’

‘Good, and very good; let us hope it may be so. Meanwhile,’ I continued, lowering my voice—for the good Mother Superior sat reading her holy book at the other end of the room, being present according to the law of the community—‘supposing it were suddenly suggested that you might be here, and the place were searched, would you be safely concealed?’

‘I am told that it may be done, but I should be frightened, indeed, if it came to that. Let us hope that such a danger may not arise.’

‘Yes, let us hope so,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless they hope best who have assured the future; therefore decide beforehand what is to be done in case of surprise. If there is a private chapel, hide in the Holy Place.’

‘How can I? No woman is admitted there.’

‘Well, I think our old friend here is not one to stand upon ceremony in emergency. There is no resident priest; no one will prevent you. Think of it. It is a good hiding place, and I am glad I thought of it. Suggest it to the mother in the moment of danger, and you will see.’

A moment of danger came most unexpectedly, even as we sat there and whispered together; indeed, a truly unfortunate and mistimed occurrence, and one that must have had terrible consequences, but for the most wonderful mercy of God, the protector of the innocent.

For even as we spoke of possible danger, there rang out a loud and startling peal at the great bell which hung in the entrance hall.

The Superior started to her feet. ‘A visitor,’ she cried, ‘and oh, how ill-chosen an hour! Be comforted,’ she added, seeing our frightened faces, ‘I will tell the door-keeper to admit no one.’

She left the room. Vera clung to my arm, and I drew her to me.

‘Be not afraid, Vera; I will protect you though all the world rage at the gates demanding you.’

‘Oh, Chelminsky, I am frightened!’ she said. ‘Do not let them take me to the Tsar; I will not live to be his wife. I will tell him so. Oh, God help me, God help me!’

‘He will help you, never fear,’ I said. ‘In this I shall be God’s soldier; I shall fight the better knowing that the protecting of you is the service of God!’

‘Give me your sword,’ she said suddenly; and, drawing it herself from the scabbard, she first made the sign of the cross over it, and then kissed it thrice.

‘Let it pass through my body rather than see me carried back to the terem,’ she said. ‘I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid of Sophia and of Ivan: his touch is poison to me.’

‘Well, I will fight to the death first,’ I said.

Meanwhile the great door had been opened and I heard a parleying. There were men’s voices and the voices of the Superior and the old woman who kept the door. The voices grew louder, and there was one which seemed familiar, though I did not as yet recognise it. This voice grew more threatening, appearing to insist upon some point which the Superior contested.

Suddenly I recognised that louder voice: it was that of the young fellow Rachmanof, with whom I had had a set-to on behalf of his sister, whom he attempted to carry off from this very sanctuary. The discovery filled me with joy.

‘Be of good cheer, Vera,’ I whispered; ‘they come not for thee, but for the sister of this young Rachmanof. We were frightened too soon, wench; they are not thinking of thee; thou art safe!’

‘Oh, thanks to Him from whom are all mercies!’ she began; but at this moment there came loud cries for help from the Mother Superior and the other woman, and I could do nothing less than rush out to their succour.

On the single flight of steps that led to our ante-room, as well as to the door which communicated with the main building, I saw a notable spectacle, and one which has lingered in my memory.

First, near the top of the stairs, stood the tall, gaunt form of the good mother, holding her great silver cross aloft as she cried for help. A few steps below her stood Rachmanof, sword in hand. God knows whether he had meant to strike the old woman down or merely to frighten her, but there was the sword.

At the foot of the stairs were two other young fellows, dressed in the uniform of the Streltsi regiments. These two held between them the form of the old doorkeeper, having gagged her mouth to stop her crying.

Their lips had been opened to laugh, but at sight of me their faces settled into a grim expression, and Rachmanof flushed and looked furiously angry.

They had shut the outer door behind them, fearing, doubtless, that any uproar might assemble a crowd whose attitude would be hostile to them.