he--Velasco."

The knock was repeated.

"Come in!" cried the Cossack. His voice was hoarse and he cleared his
throat: "Come in!"

The door opened and General Mezkarpin strode into the room, followed by
the Chief of the Third Section. The Cossacks saluted with their hands
stiffly laid to their helmets; the officer stepped forward to meet
them, bowing. All the assurance was gone from his manner; he was now
the servant, the soldier in the presence of his superior. The General
waved him aside. His face was florid and red; he was a large man,
heavy, with prominent features, and his sword clanked against the stone
of the floor as he moved. The girl was still leaning against the wall.

When she saw him she gave a little cry and sprang forward, stretching
out her hands: "Father!" she cried, "Father!" And then she stopped
suddenly and clasped her hands to her breast.

"Is this the woman you meant?" said the General, turning to Boris. He
spoke as if he were on the parade-ground, every word sharp, caustic,
staccato.

"Right, left, shoulder arms, march!"--"Is this the woman?"

"It is, General."

"She was in the Duke's room?"

"She was."

"You found her in the train?"

"In the train, last night, with this man."

"You say she is an anarchist?"

"We have known it for some time, sir."

The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes
were red like blood. He approached the girl and stood over her, his
fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself
with a difficult effort.

"You heard?" he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart,
detached. "Is it true? Are you mixed up with this infernal
Revolutionary business? My daughter! An anarchist against the Tsar?
Look me in the eyes and answer. May all the curses of heaven strike
you if it is true."

The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing
straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her. "It is true," she said,
"I am an anarchist."

The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in
blotches. His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came
nearer.

"You fired the shot?" he cried, "You! Answer me, on your soul--the
truth. It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan? You?"

The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair
fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering. Still she looked
at him and signed an