Irene Yaroslav came back to the home which had always been associated in her mind with unhappy memories, to meet the culminating disaster which Fate had wrought.  Whatever thoughts of escape she may have treasured in secret were cut into by the sure knowledge that she was watched day and night, and were now finally terminated by the discovery that the big apartment house, a suite of which Boolba had taken for her disposal when he had ousted her from her father’s house, was practically in possession of the Soviet Guard.

She drove to the palace with an undisguised escort of mounted men, one on either side of the carriage, one before and one behind, and went up the stairs ­those grim stairs which had frightened her as a child and had filled her nights with dreams, passing on her way the now empty bureau which it had been Boolba’s whim for her to keep.

Maria Badisikaya, an officer of the Committee for the Suppression of the Counter-Revolution, formerly an operative in the Moscow Cigarette Company, was waiting in the small drawing-room which still retained some of its ancient splendour.  Maria was a short, stumpy woman with a slight moustache and a wart on her chin, and was dressed in green satin, cut low to disclose her generous figure.  About her stiff, coal-black hair was a heavy diamond bandeau.  She was sitting on a settee, her feet hardly touching the ground, cleaning her nails with a little pocket-knife as the girl entered.  Evidently this was her maid of honour, and she could have laughed.

The woman glowered up at her and jumped briskly to her feet, closing the knife and slipping it into her corsage.

“You are late, Irene Yaroslav,” she said shrilly.  “I have something better to do than to sit here waiting for a boorjoo.  There is a committee meeting at ten o’clock to-night.  How do you imagine I can attend that?  Come, come!”

She bustled into an ante-room.

“Here is your dress, my little bride.  See, there is everything, even to stockings ­Boolba has thought of all, yet he will not see!  La! la!  What a man!”

Numerous articles of attire were laid out on chairs and on the back of the sofa, and the girl, looking at them, shuddered.  It was Boolba’s idea ­nobody but Boolba would have thought of it.  Every garment was of red, blood red, a red which seemed to fill the room with harsh sound.  Stockings of finest silk, shoes of russian leather, cobweb underwear ­but all of the same hideous hue.  In Russia the word “red” is also the word “beautiful.”  In a language in which so many delicate shades of meaning can be expressed, this word serves a double purpose, doing duty for that which, in the eyes of civilized people, is garish, and that which is almost divine.

Maria’s manner changed suddenly.  From the impatient, slightly pompous official, conscious of her position, she became obsequious and even affectionate.  Possibly she remembered that the girl was to become the wife of the most powerful man in Moscow, whose word was amply sufficient to send even Gregory Prodol to the execution yard, and Gregory’s position seemed unassailable.

“I will help you to dress, my little dear,” she said.  “Let me take your hat, my little dove.”

“I would rather be alone,” said the girl.  “Will you please wait in the next room, Maria Badisikaya?”

“But I can help you so, my little darling,” said the woman, fussing about.  “A bride has no luck for thirty years if she puts on her own stockings.”

“Go!” said the girl imperiously, and the woman cringed.

“Certainly, Excellenz,” she stammered, and went out without another word.

The girl changed quickly, and surveyed herself in the pier glass at the end of the room.  It was striking but horrible.  There came a tap at the door and the agitated Maria entered.

“He has sent for you, my little dove,” she said.  “Come, take my arm.  Do not tremble, my little pretty.  Boolba is a good man and the greatest man in Moscow.”

She would have taken the girl’s arm, but Irene waved her aside, and walked swiftly from the drawing-room into the grand saloon.  She wanted the ordeal over as soon as possible.

The room was crowded, and though many of the electric lamps in the great glass chandelier were not in working order and a broken fuse had put half the wall brackets in darkness, the light was almost dazzling.  This wonderful saloon, where ten Czars had eaten bread and salt with ten generations of Yaroslavs, was thick with humanity.  Some of the men were in uniform, some were in a nondescript costume which was the Soviet compromise between evening-dress and diplomatic uniform.  One man wore a correct evening-jacket and a white waistcoat with a perfectly starched shirt, over uniform trousers and top-boots.  The women were as weirdly clothed.  Some were shabby to the point of rags, a few wore court dresses of the approved pattern, and there was one woman dressed like a man, who smoked all the time.  The air was blue with tobacco smoke and buzzing with sound.

As she came into the saloon somebody shouted her name, and there was vigorous applause, not for her, she knew, nor for the name she bore, but for the novelty and the “beauty” of her wedding gown.

At the farther end of the room was a table covered with a red cloth, and behind it sat a man in evening-dress, whom she recognized as one of the newly-appointed magistrates of the city.  Nudged behind by Maria, she made her way through the press of people, whose admiring comments were spoken loud enough for her to hear.

“What a little beauty!  Too good for a blind man, eh?”

“We have knelt for her many times, now she shall kneel for us.”

“Such a dress!  This Boolba is a wonderful fellow.”

She halted before the table, her hands clasped lightly in front of her.  Her head was high, and she met every glance steadily and disdainfully.

The clock struck a quarter after ten when Boolba made his entrance amidst a storm of applause.

They had never seen him in such a uniform before.  Some thought it was a new costume which had been sanctioned by the supreme Soviet for its Commissaries; others that it had been planned especially for the marriage.  Irene alone knew it, and a cold, disdainful smile lit for a moment her expressionless face.

She had seen Boolba in knee-breeches and white silk stockings before; she knew the coat of green and gold which the retainers of the house of Yaroslav wore on state occasions.  Boolba was marrying her in his butler’s livery ­a delicate piece of vengeance.

The ceremony was short, and, to the girl, unreal.  Religious marriages, though they had not altogether been banned, were regarded by the official Russia as unnecessary, and a new marriage service had been designed, which confined the ceremony to the space of a few minutes.  The attempts to abolish marriage altogether had been strenuously opposed, not so much by the public women who were on the innumerable councils and committees, but by the wives of the more important members of the organization.

Boolba was led to her side, and reached out his hand gropingly, and in very pity of his blindness she took it.  Questions were asked him, to which he responded and similar questions were asked her, to which she made no reply.  The whole ceremony was a farce, and she had agreed to it only because it gave her a little extra time, and every minute counted.  From the moment the magistrate pronounced the formula which made them, in the eyes of the Soviet law at any rate, man and wife, Boolba never loosened his hold of her.

He held her hand in his own big, hot palm, until it was wet and her fingers lost all feeling.  From group to group they moved, and when they crossed the dancing space of the saloon, the revellers stepped aside to allow the man to pass.  She noticed that in the main they confined themselves to country dances, some of which were new to her.  And all the time Boolba kept up a continuous conversation in an undertone, pinching her hand gently whenever he wanted to attract her attention.

“Tell me, my new eyes, my little pigeon of God, what are they doing now?  Do you see Mishka Gurki?  She is a silly woman.  Tell me, my little pet, if you see her.  Watch her well, and tell me how she looks at me.  That woman is an enemy of the Revolution and a friend of Sophia Kensky....  Ah! it is sad about your poor friends.”

The girl turned cold and clenched her teeth to take the news which was coming.

“They tried to escape and they were shot down by our brave guard.  I would have pardoned them for your sake, all but the thief, who broke the jaw of comrade Alex Alexandroff.  Yes, I would have pardoned them to-night, because I am happy.  Else they would have died with Sophia Kensky in the morning....  Do I not please you, that I put away this woman, who was my eyes and saw for me ­all for your sake, my little pigeon, all for your sake!...  Do you see a big man with one eye?  He has half my misfortune, yet he sees a million times more than Boolba!  That is the butcher Kreml ­some day he shall see the Kreml,” he chuckled....  “Why do you not speak, my darling little mama?  Are you thinking of the days when I was Boolba the slave?  Na, na, stoi!  Think of to-day, to-night, my little child of Jesus!”

There were times when she could have screamed, moments of madness when she longed to pick up one of the champagne bottles which littered the floor, and at intervals were thrown with a crash into a corner of the room, and strike him across that great brutal face.  There were times when she was physically sick and the room spun round and round and she would have fallen but for the man’s arm.  But the hour she dreaded most of all came at last, when, one by one, with coarse jests at her expense, the motley company melted away and left her alone with the man.

“They have all gone?” he asked eagerly.  “Every one?”

He clutched more tightly.

“To my room.  We have a supper for ourselves.  They are pigs, all these fellows, my little beautiful.”

The old carpet was still on the stairs, she noticed dully.  Up above used to be her own room, at the far end of the long passage.  She had a piano there once.  She wondered whether it was still there.  There used to be a servant at the head and at the foot of these stairs ­a long, green-coated Cossack, to pass whom without authority was to court death.  The room on the left had been her father’s ­two big saloons, separated by heavy silken curtains; his bureau was at one end, his bedroom at the other.

It was into the bureau that the man groped his way.  A table had been set, crowded with bottles and glasses, piled with fruit, sweetmeats, and at the end the inevitable samovar.

“I will lock the door,” said Boolba.  “Now you shall kiss me on the eyes and on the mouth and on the cheeks, making the holy cross.”

She braced herself for the effort, and wrenched free.  In a flash he came at her, and his hands caught the silken gown at the shoulder.  She twisted under his arm, leaving a length of tattered and torn silk in his hand, and the marks of his finger-nails upon her white shoulder.  He stopped and laughed ­a low, gurgling laugh ­and it was to the girl like the roar of some subterranean river heard from afar.

“Oh, Highness,” he mocked, “would you rob a blind man of his bride?  Then let us be blind together!”

He blundered to the door.  There was a click, and the room was in darkness.

“I am better than you now,” he said.  “I hear you in the dark; I can almost see you.  You are by the corner of the table.  Now you are pushing a chair.  Little pigeon, come to me!”

Whilst he was talking she was safe because she could locate him.  It was when he was silent that she was filled with wild fear.  He moved as softly as a cat, and it seemed that his boast of seeing in the dark was almost justified.  Once his hand brushed her and she shrank back only just in time.  The man was breathing heavily now, and the old, mocking terms of endearment had changed.

“Come to me, Irene Yaroslav!” he roared.  “Have I not often run to you?  Have I not waited throughout the night to take your wraps and bring you coffee?  Now you shall wait on me by Inokente!  You shall be eyes and hands for me, and when I am tired of you, you shall go the way of Sophia Kensky.”

She was edging her way to the door.  Once she could switch on the light she was safe, at any rate for the time being.  There was a long silence, and, try as she did, she could not locate him.  He must have been crouching near the door, anticipating her move, for as her hand fell on the switch and the lights sprang into being, he leapt at her.  She saw him, but too late to avoid his whirling hands.  In a second he had her in his arms.  The man was half mad.  He cursed and blessed her alternately, called her his little pigeon and his little devil in the same breath.  She felt the tickle of his beard against her bare shoulder, and strove to push him off.

“Come, my little peach,” he said.  “Who shall say that there is no justice in Russia, when Yaroslav’s daughter is the bride of Boolba!”

His back was to the curtain, and he was half lifting, half drawing her to the two grey strips which marked its division, when the girl screamed.

“Again, again, my little dear,” grinned Boolba.  “That is fine music.”

But it was not her own danger which had provoked the cry.  It was that vision, twice seen in her lifetime, of dead white hands, blue-veined, coming from the curtain and holding this time a scarlet cord.

It was about Boolba’s neck before he realized what had happened.  With a strangled cry he released the girl, and she fell back again on the table, overturning it with a crash.

“This way, Highness,” said a hollow voice, and she darted through the curtains.

She heard the shock of Boolba’s body as it fell to the ground, and then Israel Kensky darted past her, flung open the door and pushed her through.

“The servants’ way,” he said, and she ran to the narrow staircase which led below to the kitchen, and above to the attics in which the servants slept.

Down the stairs, two at a time, she raced, the old man behind her.  The stairway ended in a square hall.  There was a door, half ajar, leading to the kitchen, which was filled with merrymakers, and a second door leading into the street, and this was also open.  She knew the way blindfolded.  They were in what had been the coach-yard of the Palace, and she knew there were half a dozen ways into the street.  Israel chose the most unlikely, one which led again to the front of the house.

A drosky was waiting, and into this he bundled her, jumping in by her side, holding her about the waist as the driver whipped up his two horses and sped through the deserted streets of Moscow.

“Kreml” is literally Kremlin, one of the places of detention in Moscow.