Paul gave a quiet laugh—­such a laugh as one hears in the trenches after the low hum of a passing ball.

“If it is danger you want, you will have more than I in the next week,” he answered.  “Steinmetz and I knew that you were the only woman in Russia who could get your father safely out of the country.  That is why I came for you.”

The girl did not answer at once.  They were driving on the road again now, and the sleigh was running smoothly.

“I suppose,” she said reflectively at length, “that the secret of the enormous influence you exercise over all who come in contact with you is that you drag the best out of every one—­the best that is in them.”

Paul did not answer.

“What is that light?” she asked suddenly, laying her hand on the thick fur of his sleeve.  She was not nervous, but very watchful.  “There—­straight in front.”

“It is the sleigh,” replied Paul, “with your father and Steinmetz.  I arranged that they should meet us at the cross-roads.  You must be at the Volga before daylight.  Send the horses on to Tver.  I have given you Minna and The Warrior; they can do the journey with one hour’s rest, but you must drive them.”

Catrina had swayed forward against the bar of the apron in a strange way, for the road was quite smooth.  She placed her gloved hands on the bar and held herself upright with a peculiar effort.

“What?” said Paul.  For she had made an inarticulate sound.

“Nothing,” she answered.  Then, after a pause, “I did not know that we were to go so soon.  That was all.”

CHAPTER XLII

THE STORM BURSTS

The large drawing-room was brilliantly lighted.  Another weary day had dragged to its close.  It was the Tuesday evening—­the last Tuesday in March five years ago.  The starosta had not been near the castle all day.  Steinmetz and Paul had never lost sight of the ladies since breakfast time.  They had not ventured out of doors.  There was in the atmosphere a sense of foreboding—­the stillness of a crisis.  Etta had been defiant and silent—­a dangerous humor—­all day.  Maggie had watched Paul’s face with steadfast, quiet eyes full of courage, but she knew now that there was danger.

The conversation at breakfast and luncheon had been maintained by Steinmetz—­always collected and a little humorous.  It was now dinner time.  The whole castle was brilliantly lighted, as if for a great assembly of guests.  During the last week a fuller state—­a greater ceremony—­had been observed by Paul’s orders, and Steinmetz had thought more than once of that historical event which appealed to his admiration most—­the Indian Mutiny.

Maggie was in the drawing-room alone.  She was leaning one hand and arm on the mantel-piece, looking thoughtfully into the fire.  The rustle of silk made her turn her head.  It was Etta, beautifully dressed, with a white face and eyes dull with suspense.