Part 27 (1/2)

He bent his head to enter the stable and Alban followed him, silently for very fear of his own excitement. There was so little light in the place that he could scarcely distinguish anything at first, nothing, indeed, but great beds of straw and black figures huddled upon them. By and by these took shape and became figures of women of all ages and types. Many, he perceived, were Jewesses, dark as night and as mysterious. Their clothes were poor, their att.i.tude courageous and quiet. A Circa.s.sian, whose hair was the very color of the straw with which it mingled, stood out in contrast with the others. She had lately been flogged and the clothes, torn from her bleeding shoulders, had not been replaced. Near by, the wife of a professor at the University, young and distinguished and but yesterday welcomed everywhere, sat dumb in misery, her eyes wide open, her thoughts upon the child she had left.

Not among these did Alban find Lois, but in the second of the great stalls still waiting its complement of prisoners. He wondered that he found her at all, so dark was this place; but a sure instinct led him to her and he stopped before he had even seen her face.

”Lois dear, I am sure it is Lois.”

She started up from the straw, straining wild eyes in the shadows.

Awakened from her sleep when they arrested her, she wore the dress which she had carried to her haven from the school, quite plain and pretty, with linen collars and cuffs in the old-fas.h.i.+oned style. Her hair had been loosely plaited and was bound about her like a cord. She rested upon the palms of her hands turned down to the pavement. There was but one other woman near her, and she appeared to be asleep. When she heard Alban's voice, she cried out almost as though they had struck her with the whip.

”Why do you come here?” she asked him wildly. ”Alban, dear, whatever made you come?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Why do you come here?” she asked him wildly.]

He stepped forward and kneeling down in the straw he pressed his cold lips to hers and held them there for many minutes.

”Did you not wish me to come, Lois?”

She s.h.i.+vered, her big eyes were casting quick glances everywhere, they rested at last upon the woman who seemed to sleep almost at her feet.

”They will hear every word we say, Alb, dear. That woman is listening, she is a spy.”

”I am glad of it, she can go and give her master a message from me.

Tell me, Lois, do not be afraid to speak. You knew nothing of Count Zamoyski's death. Say that you knew nothing.”

She cowered and would not answer him. A dreadful fear came upon Alban.

He began to tremble and could not keep his hands still upon her shoulders.

”Good G.o.d, Lois, why do you not speak to me? I must know the truth, you didn't kill him.”

She shrank back, laughing horribly. The pent-up excitements of the night had broken her nerve at last. For an instant he feared almost for her reason.

”Lois, Lois dear, Lois, listen to me; I have come to help you. I can help you. Lois, will you not hear me patiently?”

He caught her to him as he spoke and pressed her burning forehead to his lips. So she lay for a little while, rocked in his arms as a child that would be comforted. A single ray of suns.h.i.+ne filtered through a slit in the wall above, dwelt for a moment upon her white face and showed him all the pity of it.

”Lois, why should you speak like this because I come to you? Is it so difficult to tell the truth?”

”Did they tell you to ask me that, Alban?”

”It was forced from me, Lois. I don't believe it. I would as soon believe it of myself. But don't you see that we must answer them? They are saying it, and we must answer them.”

She struggled to be free, half resenting the manner of his question, but in her heart admitting its necessity.

”I knew nothing of it,” she said simply, ”you may tell them that, Alban.

If they offered me all the riches in the world, I could not say more. I don't know who did it, dear, and I'd never tell them if I did.”

A little cry escaped his lips and he caught her close in his arms again.

It was not to say that he had believed the darker story at which imagination, in a cowardly mood, might hint, but this plain denial, from the lips of Lois who had never told him a lie, came as a very message of their salvation.

”You have made me very happy, Lois,” he said, ”now I can talk to them as they deserve. Of course, I shall get you out of here. Mr. Gessner will help me to do so. We have the whip hand of him all said and done, for don't you see, that if you don't tell your people, I shall, and that will be the end of it. Of course, it won't come to that. I know how he will act, and what they will do when the time arrives. Perhaps they will bundle us both out of Russia, Lois, thankful to see the back of us.”

She shook her head, looking up to him with a wild face.