He broke off, and, stooping down, he drew the lapel of the Frenchman’s cloak gently over the marred face.

“And let us remember,” he said, “that he tried to save her.  Some lives are so.  At the very end a little reparation is made.  In life he was her evil genius.  When he died they trampled him underfoot in order to reach her.  Mademoiselle, will you come?”

He took Maggie by the arm and led her gently away.  She was shaking all over, but his hand was steady and wholly kind.

He led her up the narrow stairs to her own room.  In the little boudoir the fire was burning brightly; the lamps were lighted, just as the maid had left them at the first alarm.

Maggie sat down, and quite suddenly she burst into tears.

Steinmetz did not leave her.  He stood beside her, gently stroking her shoulder with his stout fingers.  He said nothing, but the gray mustache only half concealed his lips, which were twisted with a little smile full of tenderness and sympathy.

Maggie was the first to speak.

“I am all right now,” she said.  “Please do not wait any longer, and do not think me a very weak-minded person.  Poor Etta!”

Steinmetz moved away toward the door.

“Yes,” he said; “poor Etta!  It is often those who get on in the world who need the world’s pity most.”

At the door he stopped.

“To-morrow,” he said, “I will take you home to England.  Is that agreeable to you, mademoiselle?”

She smiled at him sadly through her tears.

“Yes, I should like that,” she said.  “This country is horrible.  You are very kind to me.”

Steinmetz went down stairs and found Paul at the door talking to a young officer, who slowly dismounted and lounged into the hall, conscious of his brilliant uniform—­of his own physical capacity to show off any uniform to full advantage.

He was a lieutenant in a Cossack regiment, and as he bowed to Steinmetz, whom Paul introduced, he swung off his high astrakhan cap with a flourish, showing a fair boyish face.

“Yes,” he continued to Paul in English; “the general sent me over with a sotnia of men, and pretty hungry you will find them.  We have covered the whole distance since daybreak.  A report reached the old gentleman that the whole countryside was about to rise against you.”

“Who spread the report?” asked Steinmetz.

“I believe it originated down at the wharfs.  It has been traced to an old man and his daughter,—­a sort of pedler, I think, who took a passage down the river,—­but where they heard the rumor I don’t know.”

Paul and Steinmetz carefully avoided looking at each other.  They knew that Catrina and Stepan Lanovitch had sent back assistance.

“Of course,” said Paul, “I am very glad to see you, but I am equally glad to inform you that you are not wanted.  Steinmetz will tell you all about it, and when you are ready for dinner it will be ready for you.  I will give instructions that the men be cared for.”