* *

Paul was right. The shout did come from below. It was Peter's voice
that had sent out that alarming cry.

Paul, it seems, had been gone but a few minutes, when the door of the
great hall was flung open and a half-dozen men burst in. It was then
that Peter gave a great shout to alarm the household, and in response
to which a handful of servants rushed in, Alexander Andrieff, the
red-bearded overseer, among them.

All the men were masked, not only their foreheads, but their faces
right down to their chins being hidden in black.

The man who led them stepped forward and ordered the servants back;
and they retreated.

A couple of armed and masked men sufficed to keep the few domestics
penned in the corner. Two others were stationed on the stairs to check
any advances in that direction, while two others kept the passages
closed against all further comers.

At the head of the intruders the leader walked swiftly towards Peter,
who had advanced to meet him.

"Get back, Peter Vseslavitch," said the leader, still in a pleasant
and easy voice; "get back, or I will not answer for your life."

Peter checked himself, but craned his head forward.

"By heaven!" he said in a low voice, "I believe that is you, Boris!"

"Never mind who I may be, but keep your tongue still. Unless you wish
it to be forever quieted, refrain from mentioning names in my
presence.

"Now turn about, if you please, and get back near the wall."

Mademoiselle's brother was a strong, courageous man. But what may one
do against such odds? He looked straight and steadily at the veiled
eyes of the intruder, and declined to turn about. So for a brief
instant they stood.

The bluster of the storm had effectually drowned any noise of the
disturbance except for those who had heard Peter's cry for help. Among
them was Baxter. At a glance, he had taken in the position of
affairs.

Nor did he hesitate for a moment. Breaking into a run, he dashed
across the hall toward a wall where hung a heavy sword, an heirloom
that had not been used for a hundred years. Before he could be stopped
he tore it from its fastenings and started toward the nearest of the
ruffians, who brought him to a standstill with a revolver.

The leader noted his progress, and turned about and cried, "Keep that
man away. If he moves another foot--shoot!"

Baxter threw one contemptuous glance at Boris (for it was he) and came
on. The man hesitated to fire.

"Fire! you foo