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The convicts crowded into the apartment, and in the darkness fumbled confusedly for the door that led to the front of the house. While they were thus engaged Captain Komaroff and his men arrived on the scene. The advantage was all on their side, and guided by the faint light that shone from the garden, they poured a relentless fife into the crowded mass of the enemy.

The result was simple. The convicts were in such confusion that they could make little use of their weapons, and in the utmost terror they struggled toward the door, shrieking and cursing, and trampling the dead and dying under foot.

The commandant was quick to follow up his success, and the carnage was renewed in the garden, where the convicts made a brief stand. They succeeded in shooting down one of the officers who was by Captain Komaroff's side, and then, finding the odds against them, they fled to the scaling ladders, and dropped pell mell into the ditch. More than one ruffian was lifeless when he reached the bottom, for as they passed the top of the wall they offered an easy target to the commandant's party.

Ivor and Gogol took an active part in this final act of the brief tragedy, but before it was quite over Gogol tapped his companion on the shoulder. "Look!" he cried excitedly. "Do you see that?"

The old man was pointing to the extreme end of the garden, where the rear wall was visible through a gap in the trees. It so happened that a light burning in the upper window of an adjoining house shed a dim ray on the spot, and as Ivor looked he saw a man, bearing a motionless form in his arms, scale the wall and disappear on the other side. That brief glimpse sufficed for Ivor to recognize both. The man was Schmidt, and the young girl in his arms was Sonia Komaroff. Her white dress and floating golden hair were unmistakable.

Gogol, too, recognized her. "It is the commandant's daughter," he exclaimed. "The wretch is carrying her off — no doubt from pure hatred and revenge."

Ivor's brain seemed to swim for an instant. There was no time to tell the others what had happened. They were firing away at the side wall, close to the house, over which the convicts were escaping. A moment's delay might prove fatal to the chances of rescue.

"Gogol, we must save her," he cried. "We must. Think of the poor girl in the power of that wretch. Come on, quick!"

He dashed down the garden like an arrow, and Gogol plunged after him. None observed their flight, nor had the absence of the girl been discovered.

On reaching the end of the garden the manner of Schmidt's exit was easily discovered. The wall was crumbling and jagged, and being a strong man he had been able to pull himself to the top by catching hold of the projections. No doubt he had fled in this direction with his captive as soon as he escaped from the house. Ivor and Gogol mounted the wall in the same way, keeping a tight hold on their rifles. Peering over they saw that the ditch was empty as far as each angle. Had the scoundrel already joined his companions?

"Come on, he shan't escape us," cried Ivor. He dropped to the ground. Gogol followed his example, and when they stood side by side in the bottom of the ditch and looked at the barrier of stone rising sheer above them for fifteen feet, they suddenly realized that it was impossible to return. Not a projection or crevice could be seen on the outer side of the wall. They were hopelessly cut off from their friends, and might be exposed to the fury of the mob at any minute.

But the thought of their own danger was, at the moment, as nothing compared to their desperate purpose of rescuing the captive. They turned instinctively toward the right, and hurried around the angle of the wall. They would have gone madly on, heading straight for the narrow street where the convicts were still assaulting the house with desperate fury, had not Gogol espied an iron gate, partly open, which led in to a walled garden on the opposite side of the ditch.

What could hardly have been more than a mere impulse led him to suggest to Ivor that they should search there for the missing girl. Hastily clambering up the side of the ditch they entered the gateway, and found themselves in a much larger garden than the commandant's. Half a dozen yards from the wall, on the snowy ground, lay Sonia Komaroff. Schmidt was on his knees beside her, chafing her tiny hands between his own.

The sound of crunching footsteps brought the convict to his feet in alarm, but at sight of Ivor and Gogol he seemed reassured. It was very evident that he did not recognize them. Their gray uniforms naturally deceived him, and he supposed them to be two of his comrades who had followed him up.

"Bear a hand here," he cried. "This stupid girl has fainted. We must get her to a place of shelter. That bloodthirsty tyrant Komaroff will know what it is to suffer when he finds his daughter missing. I will —"

He drew back in sudden fear as Ivor and Gogol strode menacingly toward him. Then the truth flashed upon his mind. The odds were against him, and he had not the courage to attempt resistance. He turned and fled through the gate, shouting loudly for help.

Sonia was safe for the present and with a thrill of emotion Ivor lifted her in his arms. The slender form seemed no burden to him. Her eyelids were fluttering, and the color was returning to her cheeks. She would soon awake to a consciousness of her position. Gogol hastily exchanged his own weapon for Schmidt's repeating rifle, and took a survey from the gate.

"Here come a dozen of the ruffians," he cried, rejoining Ivor. "The German is at their head. They will show us scant mercy if we fall into their hands."

"Which way shall we go?" Ivor asked. "We are hopelessly cut off from the commandant's house."

"Push through the garden," rejoined Gogol. "Give me the girl, if she is too heavy/'

Ivor half indignantly refused. He would not have parted with his burden if the weight had been twice as great.

The situation was critical, and called for immediate action. The pursuing convicts were clattering noisily through the ditch, and seemed to be within a few yards of the gate. The assault on the commandant's house still continued, apparently with as little effect as before. For the present the convicts had evidently abandoned their original intention of escaping to the mainland.

Side by side the fugitives hurried through the garden, keeping under cover of the trees and shrubbery as much as possible. They came presently to a house — the residence of some Russian merchant — but the doors and windows were tightly barred, and no light was visible within.

Schmidt and his ferocious followers were now half way through the garden, tracing the fugitives by their tracks in the snow crust. In another moment they would reach the house.

At this critical juncture Ivor noticed a dark blotch on the surface of the garden wall. Inspection revealed a rusty iron gate, which was with difficulty torn open, and the fugitives found themselves in a side street. Their exit was discovered, as a volley of rifle balls testified clearly enough.

"On! on!" cried Gogol, leading the way. Ivor followed, bearing the now half conscious girl, and they pushed rapidly down the street, seeking right and left for a place of shelter. Schmidt and a dozen convicts were close in their rear, yelling hideously, and now from the main street, toward which they were running, issued another mob, a full score strong, drawn thither by the shouts of their comrades.

Thus caught between two fires the fugitives felt that hope was ended.

The open door of a house offered a last resource, and on dashing through it they found themselves in a bake shop. The proprietor had evidently fled in haste, but as yet the mob had not paid the place a visit. Freshly baked loaves were in the trays, and a candle, burnt nearly to the end, stood on the counter.

Gogol slammed the door shut, bolted and barred it, and in addition made a barricade of all the furniture he could find. By this time the mob was outside, and immediately a violent assault began. The door groaned under the attack, and bullets tore through the crevices of the logs, driving showers of mortar in all directions.

The fugitives fled to the bakery kitchen, taking the candle with them, and thence gained the second floor by a narrow staircase. This was the only possible retreat, for the convicts had already surrounded the house.

The second floor had three apartments, and the middle one of these was chosen for the last desperate resistance. The top of the staircase was in a corridor outside, and Gogol hastily choked it up with all the furniture he could find. Then both doors of the room were barricaded, and the shutters of the one window were drawn.

Meanwhile Ivor laid his burden on a rude couch, and placed the candle on a chair near by. The girl opened her eyes, and took a quick survey of the room and its occupants. Then she uttered a little cry and sat up.

"How did I get here? Where is, my father?" she asked pitifully. "Oh! I remember now. The door was broken in, and the convict with the black beard tried to take hold of me." She sank back, and covered her face with her hands as though to shut out some dreadful sight.

Ivor was deeply affected by her distress. As briefly as possible he told her all that had happened, not even omitting the perilous state of their present situation.

Sonia Komaroff received the bad news as Ivor had expected her to receive it. She made his heart beat rapidly by her grateful words of thanks. There was a touch of hauteur in her manner, however, that warned Ivor of the gulf that was fixed between himself, a degraded convict, and this daughter of a proud and powerful Russian officer.

Further conversation was rendered impossible at this point by the renewed attack of the convicts. Under the rain of clubs, stones, and gun stocks the door tumbled in, barricade and all, and the bloodthirsty wretches were soon swarming through the lower rooms. They found the staircase, and began the ascent, tearing away the obstructing furniture piece by piece. Their hoarse yells mingled with the crack of rifles. Bullets splintered their way through the floor, and the atmosphere became dim with powder smoke.

The two defenders, pale but resolute, waited the fatal moment when the frail doors would be smashed inward. It was very close now. Ivor's heart was filled with bitter agony — not for himself, but for Sonia. He resolved to defend her to the very last — to die for her sake, and with her.

The staircase was clear now and the convicts were pushing into the corridor, and beating against the door. Another moment would witness the end.

Just when the frail panels were beginning to splinter under the rain of blows a frightful crash was heard, the house shook on its foundations, and the whole side wall of the room fell in amid a shower of splintered stone, beams, and mortar.

Ivor felt a violent blow on the head, and sinking to the floor he lost all consciousness.

* * *

CHAPTER VIII

Four bare walls blotched with dirt and cobwebs, a table and two chairs, a bearded head nestled on the pillow of a small cot, a great whitewashed iron stove flaming with heat, and beside it a Russian soldier in his shirt sleeve — this was the scene on which Ivor Petrov's gaze rested when he came back to consciousness after a period that seemed to him like an evil dream.

His limbs were stiff, and his head, which was bound in cloths, ached terribly. He was lying in bed with half his clothes on. His coarse gray jacket and overcoat, ragged and blood stained, hung from a hook on the, wall. He was puzzled to account for these strange surroundings until he recognized Gogol as the occupant of the other bed. This brought his stray conjectures to a focus, and his memory reverted to the dread events of the past. One by one they rose before him — the insurrection at the mines, the flight to Karsokov, the assault on the commandant's house, the abduction of Sonia Komaroff, the rescue achieved by himself and Gogol, and finally the last stand in the room over the baker's shop.

Here memory ceased to be of service, and Ivor lay still for a long time trying to supply the missing link between past and present. It was evening now, to judge from the fading light that entered the room from one small window, and presently the soldier put on his coat and went away.

With an effort Ivor drew himself to an upright position. He was glad to find that he had the use of his limbs.

"Well, lad, how do you feel after your long sleep?"

It was Gogol who spoke. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. His left arm was supported by a sling, and a bandage was wrapped around his forehead.

Ivor uttered an exclamation of joy. "I feared you must have been killed," he said. "As for myself, I am a little weak and dizzy, that is all. But what has happened? How long have we been here?"

"You ask me difficult questions," replied Gogol. "I have an idea that the bake shop in which we took refuge was blown up just as the convicts had broken into the room where we made our last stand. I knew nothing more until this morning when I found myself here in bed

with at broken arm and head. You have been either unconscious or asleep all day. A surgeon and several soldiers have been here, but they refuse to give me any information. I feel pretty sound except for a bad headache.''

"Mine hurts, too," exclaimed Ivor. "But what became of the commandant's daughter? Do you know?"

"I can tell you nothing," replied Gogol, "it is all a blank. Hush! Some one is coming."

Ivor sank wearily back among the pillows as the soldier entered the room, in company with a short, stout man who bore a tray in his arms. This contained broth and crackers, and a portion was speedily placed on each bed. Both patients were hungry, and did full justice to the meal. When they had finished the short man gathered up the dishes and left the room.

The interrupted conversation was not resumed, since the soldier kept a watchful eye upon his prisoners from his seat by the stove. When it finally grew dark he lighted a candle and placed it on the table. Then he took a short pipe from his pocket, and for an hour or more puffed out clouds of smoke.

Ivor lay on the bed, thinking over the recent events in which he had participated. His own future held the least place in his mind. He would have given much to know that Sonia Komaroff was safe. He was unwillingly forced to admit that the chances were against such a conclusion. If he and Gogol had fared so badly in this mysterious catastrophe was it likely that the girl had escaped serious injury — or even death?

Amid such meditations Ivor lapsed into drowsiness. He was vaguely aware that the soldier had left the room, and when soft footsteps crossed the floor a little later he roused himself from his stupor, and sat up. A slender form wrapped in a blue cloak and hood was standing beside the bed. Then the hood was thrown back, and the candle glow revealed the face of Sonia Komaroff.