across the beach. All this time the watchers in the little eating-house
could see the false moujiks, who had wriggled on their stomachs to the
very edge of the ridge, holding themselves ready to spring.

Behind his shutter, Koupriane could not restrain an exclamation of
triumph; he gradually identified some of the figures in the group, and
muttered:

"Eh! eh! There is Priemkof himself and the others. Gounsovski is right
and he certainly is well-informed; his system is decidedly a good one.
What a net-full!"

He hardly breathed as he watched the outcome. He could discern
elsewhere, beside the bay, flat on the ground, concealed by the
slightest elevation of the soil, other false moujiks. The wood of
Sestroriesk was watched in the same way. The group of revolutionaries
who strolled behind Natacha stopped to confer. In three--maybe
two--minutes, they would be surrounded--cut off, taken in the trap.
Suddenly a gunshot sounded in the night, and the group, with startled
speed, turned in their tracks and made silently for the sea, while from
all directions poured the concealed agents and threw themselves into
the pursuit, jostling each other and crying after the fugitives. But the
cries became cries of rage, for the group of revolutionaries gained the
beach. They saw Natacha, who was held up by Priemkof himself, reject the
aid of the Nihilist, who did not wish to abandon her, in order that he
might save himself. She made him go and seeing that she was going to
be taken, stopped short and waited for the enemy stoically, with folded
arms. Meanwhile, her three companions succeeded in throwing themselves
into the canoe and plied the oars hard while Koupriane's men, in the
water up to their chests, discharged their revolvers at the fugitives.
The men in the canoe, fearing to wound Natacha, made no reply to the
firing. The yacht had sails up by the time they drew alongside, and
made off like a bird toward the mysterious fords of Finland, audaciously
hoisting the black flag of the Revolution.

Meantime, Koupriane's agents, trembling before his anger, gathered at
the eating-house. The Prefect of Police let his fury loose on them and
treated them like the most infamous of animals. The capture of Natacha
was little comfort. He had planned for the whole bag, and his men's
stupidity took away all his self-control. If he had had a whip at hand
he would have found prompt solace for his mined hopes. Natacha, standing
in a corner, with he