“I am the Grand Duchess Marie!” interrupted the novice excitedly. “This young girl dressed like a Sister of Mercy is only my American companion–”
“Damnation!” yelled the officer. “I’ll take you both, then!” But the girl in the Sister of Mercy’s garb turned and violently pushed the novice from her so that she stumbled and fell on her knees among the nuns.
Then, confronting the officer: “You Bolshevik dog,” she said contemptuously, “don’t you even know the daughter of your dead Emperor when you see her!” And she struck him across the face with her prayer book.
As he recoiled from the blow a soldier shouted: “There’s your proof! There’s your insolent Romanoff for you! To hell with the whole litter! Shoot them!” Instantly a savage roar from the Reds filled that dim place; a soldier violently pushed the young Tzesarevitch into the file behind the Empress and held him there; the Grand Duchess Olga was flung bodily after him; the other children, in their hospital dresses, were shoved brutally toward their places, menaced by butt and bayonet.
“March!” bawled the officer in command.
But now, among the dark-garbed nuns, a slender white figure was struggling frantically to free herself:
“You red dogs!” she cried in an agonised voice. “Let that English woman go! It is I you want! Do you hear! I mock at you! I mock at your resolution! Boje Tzaria Khrani! Down with the Bolsheviki!”
A soldier turned and fired at her; the bullet smashed an ikon above her head.
“I am the Grand Duchess Marie!” she sobbed. “I demand my place! I demand my fate! Let that American girl go! Do you hear what I say? Red beasts! Red beasts! I am the Grand Duchess!–”
The officer who closed the file turned savagely and shook his heavy cavalry sabre at her: “I’ll come back in a moment and cut your throat for you!” he yelled.
Then, in the file, and just as the last bayonets were vanishing through the crypt door, one of the young girls turned and kissed her hand to the sobbing novice–a pretty gesture, tender, gay, not tragic, even almost mischievously triumphant.
It was the adieu of the Grand Duchess Tatyana to the living world–her last glimpse of it through the flames of the altar candles gilding the dead Christ on his jewelled cross–the image of that Christ she was so soon to gaze upon when those lovely, mischievous young eyes of hers unclosed in Paradise…
The door of the crypt slammed. A terrible silence reigned in the chapel.
Then the novice uttered a cry, caught the foot of the cross with desperate hands, hung there convulsively.
To her the Mother Superior turned, weeping. But at her touch the girl, crazed with grief, lifted both hands and tore from her own face the veil of her novitiate just begun;–tore her white garments from her shoulders, crying out in a strangled voice that if a Christian God let such things happen then He was no God of hers–that she would never enter His service–that the Lord Christ was no bridegroom for her; and, her novitiate was ended–ended together with every vow of chastity, of humility, of poverty, of even common humanity which she had ever hoped to take.
The girl was now utterly beside herself; at one moment flaming and storming with fury among the terrified, huddling nuns; the next instant weeping, stamping her felt-shod foot in ungovernable revolt at this horror which any God in any heaven could permit.
And again and again she called out on Christ to stop this thing and prove Himself a real God to a pagan world that mocked Him.
Dishevelled, her rent veil in tatters on her naked shoulders, she sprang across the chapel to the crypt door, shook it, tore at it, seized chair after chair and shattered them to splinters against the solid panels of oak and iron.
Then, suddenly motionless, she crouched and listened.
“Oh, Mother of God!” she panted, “intervene now–now!–or never!”
The muffled rattle of a rather ragged volley answered her prayer.
Outside the convent a sentry–a Kronstadt sailor–stood. He also heard the underground racket. He nodded contentedly to himself. Other shots followed–pistol shots–singly.
After a few moments a wisp of smoke from the crypt crept lazily out of the low oubliettes. The day was grey and misty; rain threatened; and the rifle smoke clung low to the withered grass, scarcely lifting.
The sentry lighted a third cigarette, one eye on the barred oubliettes, from which the smoke crawled and spread out over the grass.
After a while a sweating face appeared behind the bars and a half-stifled voice demanded why there was any delay about fetching quick-lime. And, still clinging to the bars with bloody fingers, he added:
“There’s a damned novice in the chapel. I promised to cut her throat for her. Go in and get her and bring her down here.”
The novice was nowhere to be found.
They searched the convent thoroughly; they went out into the garden and beat the shrubbery, kicking through bushes and saplings, their cocked rifles poised for a snap shot.
Peasants, gathering there more thickly now, watched them stupidly; the throng increased in the convent grounds. Some Bolshevik soldiers pushed through the rapidly growing crowd and ran toward a birch wood east of the convent. Beyond the silvery fringe of birches, larger trees of a heavy, hard-wood forest loomed. Among these splendid trees a number of beeches were being felled on both sides of the road.
“Did you see a White Nun run this way?” demanded the soldiers of the wood-cutters. The latter shook their heads:
“Nothing has passed,” they said seriously, “except some Ural Cossacks riding north like lost souls in a hurricane.”
An officer of the Red battalion, who had now hastened up with pistol swinging, flew into a frightful rage:
“Cossacks!” he bellowed. “You cowardly dogs, what do you mean by letting Kaledines’ horsemen gallop over you like that–you with your saws and axes–twenty lusty comrades to block the road and pull the Imperialists off their horses! Shame! For all I know you’ve let a Romanoff escape alive into the world! That’s probably what you’ve done, you greasy louts!”
The wood-cutters gaped stupidly; the Bolshevik officer cursed them again and gesticulated with his pistol. Other soldiers of the Red battalion ran up. One nudged the officer’s elbow without saluting:
“That other prisoner can’t be found–”
“What! That Swedish girl!” yelled the officer.
Several soldiers began speaking excitedly:
“While we were in the cellar, they say she ran away–”
“Yes, Captain, while we were about that business in the crypt, Kaledines’ horsemen rode up outside–”
“Who saw them?” demanded the officer hoarsely. “God curse you, who saw them?”
Some peasants had now come up. One of them began:
“Your honour, I saw Prince Kaledines’ riders–”
“Whose!”
“The Hetman’s–”
“Your honour! Prince Kaledines! The Hetman! Damnation! Who do you think you are! Who do you think I am!” burst out the Red officer in a fury. “Get out of my way!–” He pushed the peasants right and left and strode away toward the convent. His soldiers began to straggle after him. One of them winked at the wood-cutters with his tongue in his cheek, and slung the rifle he carried over his right shoulder en bandoulière, muzzle downward.
“The Tavarish is in a temper,” he said with a jerk of his thumb toward the officer. “We arrested that Swedish girl in the uniform of the woman’s battalion. One shoots that breed on sight, you know. But we were in such a hurry to finish with the Romanoffs–” He shrugged: “You see, comrades, we should have taken her into