The Red Symbol

We had our revolvers ready, but no one molested us, and as we made our way towards the synagogue, Loris more than once repeated his commands to the idle soldiers, with the same success.

Barzinsky’s inn, where Mishka and I had slept less than a fortnight back, was utterly wrecked, though the fire had not yet reached it, and in a heap in the roadway was the corpse of a woman, clad in a dirty bedgown. Her wig was gone and her skull battered in, but I knew it was the placid, capable, good-tempered landlady herself. The stumps of her hands lay palm down in a pool of blood, – all the fingers gone. She had worn rings, poor soul.

But that was by no means the most sickening sight I saw on that night of horror!

We reached the square where the synagogue stood, and found it packed with a frenzied, howling mob, who were raging like wolves round the gaunt weather-worn stone building. There was no more firing, either from within or without.

The glass of the two small windows above the doorway – whence, as I learned later, the defenders had delivered the intermittent fusilade that had hitherto kept the mob at bay – was smashed, and the space filled in with hastily fixed barricades. The great door was also doubtless strongly barricaded, since it still withstood an assault with axes and hammers that was in progress.

“They shoot no more; they have no more bullets,” shrieked a virago in the crowd. “Burn them out, the filthy zhits.”

Others took up the cry.

“Burn them out; what folly to batter the door! Bring straw and wood; burn them out!”

“Keep away, – work round to the left; there will be space soon,” growled Mishka, clutching me back, as I began to force my way forward. “Do as I say,” he added authoritatively.

I guessed he knew best, so I obeyed, and edged round on the outside of the crowd.

Something whizzed through the air, and fell bang among the crowd, exploding with a deafening report.

A babel of yells arose, – yells of terror now; and the mob surged back, leaving a clear space in which several stricken figures were writhing, – and one lay still.

“Fly!” shouted a stentorian voice. “They are making bombs and throwing them; fly for your lives. Why should we all perish?”

I was carried back in the rush, and found myself breathless, back against a wall. Three figures cleared themselves from the ruck, and I fought my way to them.

“Well done, Mishka, – for it was thou!” exclaimed Loris. “How was it done?”

“Pouf, it was but a toy,” grunted Mishka. “I brought it in my pocket, – on chance; such things are useful at times. If it had been a real bomb, we should all have entered Heaven – or hell – together.”

“Get to the steps; they are coming back,” cried Loris.

He was right. A section of the crowd turned, and made an ugly rush, only to halt in confusion as they found themselves confronted by levelled revolvers, held by four men in uniform.

“Be off,” Loris shouted. There was no anger in his voice; he spoke as sternly and dictatorially as one speaks to a fractious child. “You have done enough mischief for one night, – and the punishment is still to come. Back, I say! Go home, and see that you do no more evil.”

He strode towards them, and they gave back before him.

“Jèsu! It is the archangel Michel! Ah, but we have sinned, indeed,” a woman wailed hysterically. The cry was caught up, echoed in awestruck murmurs; and the whole lot of them quickened their flight, as we marched on their heels.

“A compliment to you, my Mishka, – you and your toy bomb; somewhat more like Jove and his thunderbolts though, eh?” said Loris, and I saw his eyes gleam for a moment with a flash of the quaint humor that cropped up in him at the most unexpected moments. “It was a good thought, for it achieved much, at very little cost. But these poor fools! When will they learn wisdom?”

We stood still, waiting for a brief space, to see if the mob would return. But the noise receded, – the worst was over; though the baleful glare of the burning houses waxed ever brighter, revealing all the horrors of that stricken town.

With a sigh Loris thrust his revolver back into his belt, – none of us had fired a shot, – and strode back to the door of the synagogue.

From within we could hear, now that the din had ceased, the wailing of frightened children, the weeping of women.

Loris drew his revolver again and beat on the door with the butt.

“Open within there!” he cried. “All is safe, and we are friends.”

“Who are you? Give the name, or the word,” came the answer, in a woman’s voice; a voice that I knew well.

“Open, Anna; à la vie et à la mort!” he called.

A queer dizziness seized me as I listened. She was within, then; in another minute I should meet her. But how could I hope that she would have a word, a glance, to spare for me, when he was there. I could not even feel jealous of him; he was so far above me in every way. For me there must still be only “the page’s part,” while he was the king, and she the queen.

There were lumbering noises within, as of heavy goods being moved; but at last the door swung back, and there on the threshold, with her hands outstretched, stood Anne Pendennis.

CHAPTER XLI

LOVE OR COMRADESHIP?

“I knew thou wouldst come,” she said in French, as he caught those outstretched hands in his.

She looked pale and worn, as was natural, – but lovelier than ever, as she stood, a shadowy figure in her dark gown against the gloom behind her, for there was no light within the synagogue. The lurid glare from without shed an unearthly radiance on her white face and shining hair.

“I am not alone,” he said. “Maurice Wynn is with me; and the good Mishka and his father.”

She glanced at me doubtfully, and then held out her hand, flashing at me the ghost of her old arch smile.

“It is Maurice, indeed; how the beard has changed you, – and the uniform! I did not know you,” she said, still in French. “But come; there is still much to do, and we must be gone before daylight. How did you drive them off? Will they make another attack?” she asked, turning to Loris.

“I think not; they have had enough for one time. You must thank Mishka here for putting them to the rout,” he answered. “Ah, Stepán, you are here also, as I expected,” he added to a young man of about my own age, whom I guessed to be Anne’s cousin, Count Vassilitzi, from the strong likeness between them, though his hair was much darker than hers, and he wore a small mustache.

What passed in the synagogue both before and after we came, I only learned later; for Mishka and I were posted on guard at the entrance of the square, while Pavloff went off to seek our horses and intercept the men who were following us. If he met them in time, they would make a détour round the town and wait for us to join them on the further side.

Our sentry-go business proved an unnecessary precaution, for no more rioters appeared; the excitement in the town was evidently dying out, the pogrom was over, – for the time.

Some of the bolder spirits among the Jews came from the synagogue, exchanging pious ejaculations of thanks to God for their deliverance. They slunk furtively by us; though one venerable-looking old man paused and invoked what sounded like a blessing on us, – in Hebrew, I think.

“You can keep all that for the gracious lady,” growled Mishka. “It is to her you owe your present deliverance.”

“It is, indeed,” he answered in Russian. “The God of our fathers will bless her, – yea, and she shall be blessed. And He will bless you, Excellencies, – you and your seed even to the third and fourth generation, inasmuch that you also have worked His will, and have delivered His children out of the hands of evil-doers.”

Mishka scratched his head and looked sheepish. This blessing seemed to embarrass him more than any amount of cursing would have done.

“They are harmless folk, these Jews,” he grunted. “And they are brave in their way, although they are forever cringing. See – the old man goes with the others to try and check the course of the fires. They are like ants in a disturbed ants’ nest. They begin to repair the damage while it is yet being done. To-morrow, perchance even to-day, they will resume their business, and will truckle to those who set out to outrage and murder them this night! That is what makes the Jew unconquerable. But it is difficult to teach him to fight, even in defence of his women; though we are doing something in that way among the younger men. They must have done well to hold out so long.”

“How did they get arms?” I asked.

“They have not many so far, but there is one who comes and goes among them, – one of themselves, – who brings, now a revolver or two, now a handful of cartridges, now a rifle taken to pieces; always at the risk of his life, but that to him is less than nothing.”

“Yossof!” I exclaimed.

He nodded, but said no more, for Count Vassilitzi came across the square to us.

“All is quiet?” he asked. “Good. We can do no more, and it is time we were off. You are Monsieur Wynn? I have heard of you from my cousin. We must be friends, Monsieur!”

He held out his hand and I gripped it. I’d have known him anywhere for Anne’s kinsman, he was so like her, more like her in manner even than in looks; that is, like her when she was in a frivolous mood.

There was quite a crowd now on the steps of the synagogue, a crowd of weeping women – yes, and weeping men, too, – who pressed around Anne, jostling each other in the attempt to kiss her hands, or even the hem of her gown.

She looked utterly exhausted, and I saw, – not without a queer pang at heart, – that Loris had his arm round her, was indeed, rather carrying, than merely supporting her.

“Let us through, good people,” I heard him say. “Remember that her peril is as great as yours, even greater.”

As he spoke, her eyelids drooped, and she swayed back on to his shoulder. He swung her into his arms as I had seen him do once before, on that memorable summer night more than three months ago, when I thought I had looked my last on her; and, as the women gave way before him, he strode off, carrying his precious burden as easily as if she had been a little child.

We followed closely, revolvers in hand; but there was no need to use them. The few streets we traversed on the route Loris took were deserted; and though the houses on either side were smouldering ruins, we passed but few corpses, and some of those were Russians. The worst of the carnage had been in the streets further from the synagogue.

“You came just in time,” remarked Vassilitzi. “We were expecting the door to be burst in or burnt every moment; so we packed the women and children up into the women’s gallery again – we’d been firing from there till the ammunition was gone – and waited for the end. Most of the Jews were praying hard; well, I suppose they think their prayers were efficacious for once.”

“Without doubt,” I answered. His cynical tone jarred on me, somehow.

“They will need all their prayers,” he rejoined, shrugging his shoulders. “To-night is but a foretaste of what they have to expect. But perhaps they will now take the hint, and learn to defend themselves; also they will not have the soldiers to reckon with, if they can hold out a little longer.”

“How’s that?” I asked, because he seemed to expect the question; not because I was particularly interested; my mind was concentrated on those two in front.

“Why, because the soldiers will be wanted elsewhere, as I think you know very well, mon ami,” he laughed. “Well, I for one am glad this little affair is over. I could do with some breakfast, and you also, eh? Anna is worn out; she will never spare herself. Ma foi! she is a marvel; I say that always; and he is another. Now if I tried to do that sort of thing” – he waved his hand airily towards Loris, tramping steadily along. “But I should not try; she is no light weight, I give you my word! Still they make a pretty picture, – eh? What it is to be a giant!”

I’d have liked to shake him, and stop his irresponsible chatter, which seemed out of place at the moment. I knew he wouldn’t have been able to carry Anne half across the street; he was a little, thin fellow, scarcely as tall as Anne herself.

But I could have carried her, easily as Loris was doing, if I’d had the chance and the right.

Yet his was the right; I knew that well, for I had seen the look in her eyes as she greeted him just now. How could I have been such a conceited fool as to imagine she loved me, even for a moment! What I had dared to hope – to think – was love, was nothing of the kind; merely frank camaraderie. It was in that spirit she had welcomed me; calling me “Maurice,” as she had done during the last week or two of her stay at Mary’s; but somehow I felt that though we had met again at last, she was immeasurably removed from me; and the thought was a bitter one! She loved me in a way, – yes, as her friend, her good comrade. Well, hadn’t I told myself for months past that I must be content with that?

CHAPTER XLII

THE DESERTED HUNTING LODGE

Our own horses were already at the appointed place, together with Pavloff and the Duke’s little band of “recruits;” sturdy young moujiks these, as I saw now by the gray light of dawn, cleaner and more intelligent-looking than most of their class.

They were freshly horsed, for they had taken advantage of the confusion in the town to “commandeer” re-mounts, – as they say in South Africa. There were horses for Anne, and her cousin, too. Pavloff, like his son, was a man who forgot nothing.

Anne had already revived from the faintness that overcame her on the steps of the synagogue. I had heard her talking to Loris, as we came along; more than once she declared she was quite able to walk, but he only shook his head and strode on.

He set her down now, and seemed to be demurring about her horse. I heard her laugh, – how well I knew that laugh! – though I had already swung myself into the saddle and edged a little away.

“It is not the first time I have had to ride thus. Look you, Maurice, it goes well enough, does it not?” she said, riding towards me.

I had to look round at that.

She was mounted astride, as I’ve seen girls ride in the Western States. She had slipped off the skirt of her dark riding-habit, and flung it over her right arm; and was sitting square in her saddle, her long coat reaching to the tops of her high riding-boots.

I felt a lump come to my throat as I looked at the gallant, graceful figure, at the small proud head with its wealth of bright hair gleaming under the little astrachan cap that she wore, at the white face with its brave smile.

I knew well that she was all but dead-beat, and that she only laughed lest she might weep, or faint again.

“It goes well indeed, capitaine,” I answered, with a military salute.

Pavloff, still on foot, came forward and stood beside her, speaking in a low growl; he was an elder edition of his son Mishka.

She listened, looking down at him gravely and kindly. I could not take my eyes from her face, so dear and familiar, and yet in one way so changed. I guessed wherein the change lay. When I had known her before she had only been playing a part, posing as a lovely, light-hearted, capriciously coquettish girl, without a real care in the world. But now I saw her without the mask, knew her for what she was, the woman who was devoting her youth, her beauty, her brilliant talents, to a great cause, – a well-nigh hopeless one, – and I loved her more than ever, with a passionate fervor that, I honestly declare, had no taint of selfishness in it. From that moment I told myself that it was enough for me merely to be near her, to serve her, shield her perhaps, and count, as a rich reward, every chance word or thought or smile she might bestow on me.

“Yes, it is well; your duty lies there,” I heard her say. “God be with you, old friend; and farewell!”

She slipped her right hand out of its loose leather glove, and held it out to him.

When I first saw her at Chelsea, I had decided that hers were the most beautiful hands in the world, not small, but exquisitely shaped, – hands that, in their graceful movements, somehow seemed to convey a subtle idea of power and versatility. She never wore rings. I remembered how Mary once remarked on this peculiarity, and Anne had answered that she did not care for them.

“But you’ve quite a lot in your jewel case, lovely old ones; you ought to wear them, Anne,” Mary protested, and Anne’s eyes had darkened as they always did in moments of emotion.

“They were my mother’s. Father gave them me years ago, and I always carry them about with me; but I never wear them,” she said quietly.

The remembrance of this little episode flashed through my mind as I saw her hold out her ringless hand, – begrimed now with dirt and smoke, with a purple mark like a bruise between the thumb and first finger, that showed me she had been one of the firing party.

Pavloff bared his shaggy head, and bent over the hand as if it had been that of an empress; then moved away and went plump on his knees before Loris.

“Where is he going?” I asked Anne, ranging my horse alongside.

“Back to his work, like the good man he is,” she said, her eyes fixed on Loris, who had raised the old steward and was speaking to him rapidly and affectionately. “He came thus far lest we should have need of him; perhaps also because he would say farewell to me, – since we shall not meet again. But now he will return and continue his duty at Zostrov as long as he is permitted to do so. That may not be long, – but still his post is there.”

“They will murder him, as some of them tried to murder the Duke last night,” I said. “You have heard of the explosion?”

She nodded, but made no comment, and, as Pavloff mounted and rode off alone, Loris also mounted and joined us with Vassilitzi, and the four of us started at a hand-gallop, a little ahead of the others. Loris rode on Anne’s right hand, I on her left, and I noticed, as I glanced at her from time to time, how weary and wistful her face was, when the transient smile had vanished; how wide and sombre the eyes that, as I knew of old, changed with every mood, so that one could never determine their color; at one moment a sparkling hazel, at another – as now – dark and mysterious as the sky on a starless night.

The last part of our route lay through thick woods, where the cold light of the dawn barely penetrated as yet, though the foliage was thin overhead, and the autumn leaves made a soft carpet on which our horses’ hoofs fell almost without a sound.

We seemed to move like a troop of shadows through that ghostly twilight. One could imagine it an enchanted forest, like those of our nursery tales, with evil things stirring in the brakes all about us, and watching us unseen. Once there came a long-drawn wail from near at hand; and a big wolf, homing to his lair at the dawning, trotted across the track just ahead, and bared his fangs in a snarl before he vanished. A few minutes later another sound rang weirdly above the stealthy whispers of the forest, – the scream of some creature in mortal fear and pain.

“That is a horse that the wolves are after – or they’ve got him!” exclaimed Vassilitzi. He and I were leading now, for the track was only wide enough for two to ride abreast. We quickened our pace, though we were going at a smart trot, and as a second scream reached our ears, ending abruptly in a queer gurgle, we saw in front a shapeless heap, from which two shadowy forms started up growling, but turned tail and vanished, as the other wolf had done, as we galloped towards them.

The fallen horse was a shaggy country nag, with a rope bridle and no saddle. The wolves had fastened on his throat, but he was not yet dead, and as I jumped down and stood over him he made a last convulsive effort to rise, glaring at me piteously with his blood-flecked eyes. We saw then that his fore-leg was broken, and I decided the best thing to do was to put the beast out of his misery. So I did it right then with a shot in his ear.

“He has been ridden hard; he was just about spent when he stumbled on that fallen trunk and fell, and that was some time since,” said Vassilitzi, looking critically at the quivering, sweat-drenched carcase. “Now, what does it mean? If the wolves had chased him, – and they are not so bold now as in the winter, – they would have had him down before, and his rider too; but they had only just found him.”

He stared ahead and shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who dismisses an unimportant question to which he cannot find a ready answer.

The others caught up with us as I got into my saddle again, and we made no delay, as the incident was not of sufficient moment.

We passed one or two huts, that appeared to be uninhabited, and came at last to the open, or rather to a space of a few hundred acres, ringed round by the forest, and saw in the centre of the clearing a low, rambling old house of stone, enclosed with a high wall, and near the tall gateway a few scattered wooden huts.

Some fowls and pigs were straying about, and a few dejected looking cows and a couple of horses were grazing near at hand; but there was no sign of human life.

“Diable! Where are they all?” exclaimed Vassilitzi, frowning and biting his mustache.

“What place is this?” I asked him.

“Mine. It was a hunting lodge once; now it represents all my – our – possessions. But where are the people?”

He rode to the nearest hut, kicked open the crazy door, and shouted imperatively; but there was no reply. The whole place was deserted.

Thence to the gateway, with its solid oak doors. He jumped down and tried them, petulantly muttering what certainly sounded like a string of oaths. But they were locked and barred.

The others rode up, Anne and Loris first, the men straggling after.

Anne was swaying in her saddle; her face was ashy pale. I think she would have fallen but that Loris steadied her with his arm.

“What now?” she gasped. “There has been no fighting;” she glanced wildly around, “and yet – where are they all? We left twenty to guard her, within, besides these others.” She stretched her hand towards the empty huts.

“Give the signal!” she continued, turning to Loris. “If there are any within they will answer that!”

He drew his revolver and fired five shots in the air; while we all sat, staring at him, and wondering what would happen next; at least that was what I was wondering. The silence was so uncanny!

CHAPTER XLIII

THE WOMAN FROM SIBERIA

At last there was a movement within. Halting footsteps approached the gates, and a man’s voice, hoarse and weak, demanded: “Who is there?”

“It is Yossof,” Anne exclaimed. “How comes he here alone? Where is my mother, Yossof?”

I started as I heard that. Her mother was alive, then, though Anne had said she could not remember her, and Treherne had told me she died soon after her arrest, more than twenty years back.

“She is within and safe; Natalya is with her,” came Yossof’s quavering voice, as he labored to unbar the gates. We heard him gasping and groaning as if the task was beyond his strength, but he managed it at last. The great doors swung open, and he stood leaning against one of them. In the chill morning light his face looked gray and drawn like that of a corpse, just as it had looked that first time I saw him on the staircase at Westminster. On the weed-grown path beside him lay a revolver, as if he had dropped it out of his hand when he started to unbar the gates.

“What has happened, Yossof?” Anne asked urgently.

“Nothing; all is well, Excellency,” he answered. “I rode and gave the word as the order was, and when I reached the town the madness had begun, so I did not enter, but came on hither. My horse was spent, and I found another, but he fell and I left him and came on foot. I found none here save the Countess and Natalya; the others had fled, fearing an attack. So I closed the gates and kept guard.”

“God reward thee, friend; thou hast done well, indeed,” Anne said, and moved on to the house.

I felt a twitch on my sleeve, and Mishka muttered in my ear.

“Count our men in and then see the gate barred. We shall be safer so. I will look after Yossof, and find also what food is in the house for us all. We need it sorely!”