Early in the morning two days after Paul's visit to the Demidof mansion in the Sloboda quarter, a man came and knocked the house up. He asked to see Vera and explained his mission thus:—

"The French Emperor," he said, "is established in the Kremlin, in the dwelling of our Tsars; there is a meeting at ten in the house in the Tverskoy to decide what is best to be done".

Both Vera and Sasha Maximof attended that meeting, when it was decided that terrible as such a thing must appear to every good and patriotic Russian, the Kremlin Palace itself must be ignited or blown up. Better destroy than allow it to be defiled by the presence of these foreigners, with the antichrist himself at their head!

Volunteers were called for to attempt the dangerous enterprise. To Vera's joy and pride Sasha was one of the first to give in his name, and was chosen with a dozen others to evolve a scheme and put it into practice without delay.

"I am proud of you," she whispered; "it is a dangerous venture; if I were a man I should be with you."

"Yes, I am sure of that," Sasha laughed.

He was grave enough, however, when the time came to go forth upon his mission. The Kremlin was full of French guards and the attempt to be made by himself and his companions was perilous in the extreme.

"Promise me you will leave Moscow if anything should happen to me," he said at parting from Vera. "You must see that it is not safe for you here; the town already burns on all sides, I do not see that you can do any further good by remaining; the French rats will soon be obliged to bolt."

"Yes, I think that is so; I promise to be very discreet; the work has certainly gone well forward these two days. But do not speak as though you would not return, dear Sasha, for you, too, will be discreet and careful. Run no needless risks; your enterprise may be performed in safety, promise me you will be careful."

"If I thought," Sasha faltered, "that it was of consequence to you whether I lived or died, I would be careful indeed."

"But, mon ami, it is of the greatest consequence to me; are you not my protector here in Moscow? Are you not, too, one of our patriots and engaged even now upon a scheme which all Russia shall one day speak of and applaud?"

"Yes—but apart from that—personally, I mean, Vera; if only I might take with me the knowledge that you cared even a little for me, I would go to the gates of hell and return safely."

"Dear Sasha, I like you very much—far better than I used to like you. I suppose one would always be interested in a person who had once been her fiancÉ."

"Yes, yes, but——"

"But you have been so specially kind and attentive to me that—that you must really return, Sasha; I—I insist."

"Say that it matters to you personally, Vera, and by all the blessed Saints not all the soldiers of Napoleon shall prevent my returning."

"Oh, boaster," said Vera, attempting to withdraw her hand, which he had captured and was now covering with kisses; "I will say no more than this, 'please return safely'!"

Sasha Maximof went out, presently, upon his dangerous errand, and Vera was surprised to find how anxiously she awaited his return. She waited two hours, three, four, and then could bear the strain no longer. She had watched the sky in the direction of the Kremlin, but had not been able to discern that smoke rose from that particular quarter, though in almost every other direction the heavens were obscured by lurid clouds of black vapour, increasing evidence of the activity of the patriotic league.

When four hours had passed and there was still no news of Sasha, Vera could bear her anxiety no longer, and sallied forth to see whether she could hear from others any news of the Kremlin enterprise. She visited one or two of her friends in the Sloboda, but no one had yet received any news.

Then she ventured into the portion of the city which was actually occupied by French troops, and even penetrated close to the outer wall of the Kremlin enclosure itself.

A dozen times she was accosted by soldiers, none too politely, but in each case Vera successfully eluded her impudent admirers and proceeded upon her way, pursued by remarks which, if she had attended to or even heard them, would have caused her cheeks to flush; but her mind was fully occupied and she heard nothing.

Close to the Great Arch of the Kremlin she was startled to hear the sound of shots many times repeated. She hesitated before entering the Kremlin enclosure; dared she penetrate thus into the very heart of the occupied quarters?

A group of Russians, old men mostly, hawkers of lemon drinks and of prianniki, or biscuits, presently came hurrying out into the street, chattering and crossing themselves, a few French soldiers chasing them through the archway out of the Kremlin.

"BÓje moy, it is horrible!" she heard an old man exclaim; "I shall dream of it!"

Vera accosted him. "What is it, father? What has happened?" she asked.

"What has happened?" said the old fellow crossing himself and looking round to see whether the French soldiers listened, "Why, murder has happened; the shedding of good Russian blood; butchery I call it! Did you not hear the shots? A dozen of them, all shot down one after another by these most damnable foreigners! As if they have not shed blood enough already, Russian blood too, which is the holiest of all and the best!"

"Yes, but whose blood is this you speak of? who has been shot?" asked Vera, her heart feeling like lead.

"Why, Russians; good patriotic fellows who had done nothing worse than attempt to burn down the great palace with the French Tsar inside it—would to God they had succeeded! Well, they were caught and shot, a dozen or more of them."

"All shot—every one of them?" Vera asked faintly. "Are you sure that all were shot?"

"Every single one—I saw it done; that's what I say, that I shall dream of it; I called the French soldiers shameful names, but they do not understand Russian, though they turned us all out for booing at them; it is a mercy we too were not shot; yet who could stand and see the murder done without protesting? Why, what ails you, dooshÁ tui moyÁ? One would think your sweetheart had been among these butchered men."

Vera said nothing but turned away with dry eyes and a steady lip. Within her breast, however, her heart lay dead-cold and heavy as lead.

"I wish I had been among them," the thought came a hundred times into her brain. "Why was I not among them, at his side?"

"Yes, that would have been far better—to have died at his side!"

Vera heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind her, but took no notice. Some one shouted, and she stepped automatically out of the roadway upon the raised wooden pavement at the side.

"That is a French dress," she heard a man say, and seemed to recognise the voice, but her thoughts were far away. "How came she here?—ask her, General." Vera half awoke from her dream of misery and looked up; Napoleon was at her elbow on horseback, with his suite in attendance. She was about to make the reverence which her familiarity with the Court in Paris prompted her to offer automatically at sight of the sovereign; but she bethought herself and left the curtsy half made.

"Who is it—I know the face," said Napoleon; "who are you, mon enfant, and what do you here? Have I not seen you in Paris?"

"Sire, it is the daughter of the Secretary of the Russian Embassy," explained an aide-de-camp; "Mademoiselle Demidof."

"Of course," said Napoleon, smiling benignly; "pardon me, Mademoiselle, I took you for a French lady and wondered at your presence here; may I add that so fair a face courts danger in Moscow at the present moment?"

Vera had stood still, gazing with set face from one man to the other as each spoke. Her heart swelled with indignation and hatred. This was the very arch-enemy himself; the fiend in man's likeness who had brought ruin upon her country and upon this holy city.

"Shall I then be shot down in cold blood as your Majesty has just slaughtered a body of my poor countrymen?" she said suddenly.

"Morbleu!" exclaimed Napoleon, glancing angrily at the girl. He paused a moment, then laughed, shrugged his shoulders and rode on.

"She is mad, Sire, patriot-mad!" Vera heard some one say, and the Emperor's reply reached her ears: "She has nevertheless a fine spirit".

Vera hastened homewards. She forgot the incident of her encounter with Napoleon; she took no notice of the hundreds of compliments, impudent observations and rude jests thrown at her by scores of French soldiers as she passed; Sasha Maximof was dead: this was her only thought; it absorbed her entire being; was it—she asked herself—really so all-important to her that this man was dead? She had not yet learned to love him; it must surely be a mere sentimental regret, this black heavy weight upon her heart; a sentimental regret that one who had once been nominally her fiancÉ had suddenly met his death; her heart had not received its death-wound—oh no! this was but a passing feeling of sympathy and sorrow; it would disappear; the shock of the sudden catastrophe had unnerved her.

Nevertheless when Vera had lain for an hour upon her bed, assuring herself that after all this calamity was not really a disaster, for her, of the first magnitude, she suddenly realised that nothing in the world could have mattered more to her than the death of this man; and turning her face to the wall she wept as though her heart were indeed broken.