The traitor Daroman was missing, and Maurice searched in vain for his familiar countenance. The cause of his treachery was only too plain. The adverse circumstances which confronted the fugitives, the want of food, the encompassing soldiers, the wind-lashed waters of the harbour, that made escape impossible at present, his own ignorance of swimming, all these things made him hopeless and despondent.
He feared capture, and capture in such company would only make his punishment the worse. Then the loophole of escape appeared. It would slip away, surrender himself to the first Russian officer he could find, and disclose the whereabouts of the three escaped convicts on whose head a heavy price was set, surely this service would offset the misdemeanour that had made him a fugitive from his own Government.
He would be pardoned, probably restored to his rank and position. So he doubtless reasoned, and so he acted. The mines of Kara yawned once more for Platoff and his comrades.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVII
That night the storm passed away, and the sun rose on a perfect morning.
The blue Pacific was still beating the sandy coast with white-capped billows, it is true, but the sky was clear and serene, and the sun shone brightly on the town and harbour of Vladivostok.
What a frightful mockery all this glorious beauty seemed to the three prisoners as they passed for a moment through the cottage yard, and entered the closed carriage that had just arrived from the town! Their wan, haggard faces, from which every vestige of hope had fled, seemed to draw sympathy from even the stern and pitiless Cossacks.
The commanding officer took his seat in the carriage, and gave the order to start. He had deferred the departure until now, purposely, no doubt, that his triumph might be seen of men, and to add dignity to the occasion the carriage was surrounded on all four sides by troops of mounted Cossacks.
They rode briskly out of the wooded valley, and turned down the sandy beach, entering the town by its main thoroughfare—a long, narrow street, lined for the most part with wooden houses of a peculiar construction. The sidewalks were filled with people, and Maurice looked with curiosity at the odd types of character—the queerly-dressed Russians, the pig-tailed Chinese, and the dark-featured Coreans.
The triumphant procession—for so it was clearly regarded by the inhabitants—continued on past the Government offices, the Admiralty, with its yellow dome and waving flag, the imposing, carved facade of the Naval Club, and passing through the Chinese Bazaar and the market-place, swept along the wharf, tantalising the wretched prisoners with a brief glimpse of the shipping anchored in the harbour—the flags of all nations that fluttered in the morning breeze.
Then a low, gloomy building came in view, frowning with cannon, pierced with embrasures, and the carriage drew up before the fortress.
A brief sigh escaped Platoff's lips. No one spoke, for strict silence had been enjoined.
Another carriage was standing on one side of the massive entrance —an imposing vehicle glistening with new paints and gilded trimmings. A dozen soldiers of huge stature were guarding it, and one of them seemed strangely familiar to Maurice.
The prisoners got out of the carriage before the gateway which was open to receive them, and marched slowly forward, each between two soldiers.
Just at this time a commotion was heard within, and a sentry on the steps called aloud.
"The inspector is coming, make room for his excellency!"
The officer in charge flushed with pride, and straightened himself an inch or two.
"Halt!" he cried, sharply.
"Rightabout! Forward! Halt!" and the prisoners drawn up beside the short flight of stone steps awaited the arrival of the Inspector.
Maurice fixed his eyes on the arched doorway. He was curious to see this government official who had travelled across Siberia inspecting the Czar's prisons and penal settlements. A moment later he appeared—a tall, richly-uniformed gentleman, preceded by a young Cossack officer—and at sight of that noble face, the wavy, yellow moustache and beard, and clear blue eyes, Maurice was thrilled with such a strong notion, that he staggered back and would have fallen but for the guard's firm grip on his arm. The dizziness passed off instantly, and he straightened up trembling, and flushed with excitement.
His excellency halted on the topmost step for a parting word with the commandant of the fortress, who followed him to the door. Then he came quickly down between the presented arms of the sentries, and as his feet touched the bottom, Maurice, with a supreme effort, tore from his guards. and flung himself before the amazed official, crying loudly:
"Colonel Jaroslav! help me! help me!"
All was wild excitement in an instant, and the daring lad was dragged roughly aside, struggling fiercely with his captors.
"Help me," he cried, with all his might. "You remember, Colonel Jaroslav—St. Petersburg—a year ago in the square—I saved your life—dragged you from the cannons—I had your card—all; for Heaven's sake, help me. Let me speak a word, just a word——"
Then a burly Cossack clutched his throat, stifling his cry. Another struck him brutally on the mouth, and the officer smote him with the flat of his sword. Still struggling desperately, he was dragged up the steps, and in a few seconds more the fortress doors would have closed behind him.
"Stop! Who is that man?" Colonel Jaroslav's voice rose sha.rply above the tumult.
The officer hurried forward, cap in hand. "A convict, your excellency," he said. "One of those who escapcd from Kara two months ago. There are the other two. I captured them last night north of the town."
Near midnight he fell into a restless doze, from which he was roused by a dull, booming sound that seemed to shake the walls of the cell. Then followed half a dozen sharp reports, and as he sprang to his feet in alarm a rush of footsteps passed his cell, and a hoarse voice shouted .
"Drop the boats—quick. He's swimming out into the harbour."
* * *
CHAPTER XXVIII
Six feet beneath the level of the flat top of the fortress, on the eastern side facing the sea, extended a paved stone wall twenty feet broad. On the outer edge of this rose a massive parapet deeply embrasured and mounted with frowning cannon that pointed their gaping muzzles day and night on the shipping in the harbour. Seven grated windows directly beneath the roof faced this paved wall, and the middle grating admitted a feeble supply of light to the cell wherein Paul Platoff was confined.
Five minutes before the alarm occurred that roused Maurice from his sleep, two sentries were patrolling before the row of windows now back to back, as they neared the angles of the fortress, now face to face as they approached and met before the middle window. Three lanterns, placed at regular intervals, threw a bright lighten the scene, and shining out on the sea, mingled with the wavy reflections from the shipping.
"Have you a light, Ivan?" said one sentry to the other as they met before Platoff's window.
"Yes," was the reply; "here is my pipe; hurry and finish your smoke, though, for the night officer will soon be here."
They halted a moment to exchange fire, and as they moved off again, neither heard a sharp crack that came from a point close at hand.
The distance between them gradually widened, and they were close to the angles of the fortress. When suddenly the grating dropped from the middle window with a tremendous crash, and they wheeled round in time to see a dark figure slip nimbly to the ground and dash towards the parapet.
Crack! crack! rang the two rifles simultaneously, as the sentries rushed forward, but the dark figure gained the top of the parapet unchecked, and leaped wildly into the darkness. A heavy splash told that he had reached the sea, fifty feet below.
The alarm-gun standing ready primed and loaded was touched off instantly, and as the loud boom roused the inmates of the fortress and drew an eager crowd of officers and soldiers to the spot, the figure of the escaped prisoner was seen for an instant striking boldly out into the harbour.
A score of rifles belched out flame and lead—with what effect none could tell—and a few moments later four boats, manned with armed soldiers, were gliding to and fro over the harbour. From midnight until morning they hunted Paul Platoff in vain. and when daylight came a Russian corvette watched the mouth of the harbour, while the commandant of the fortress, armed with the Czar's authority, searched every vessel in the port—German, Danish, Italian, English, and American.
But Paul Platoff could not be found, and when night came again it was officially reported that the daring revolutionist had found a resting-place at the bottom of the sea.
The two negligent sentries were put in irons, the gratings at the six other windows were strengthened, and the fortress settled down to its usual routine again.
Colonel Jaroslav informed the boys of the sad occurrence. Phil burst into tears, and Maurice, throwing himself on the bed, hid his face in the pillow. When the door had closed behind the colonel, he sprang up.
"Phil," he exclaimed, excitedly, "don't you believe it! Platoff is not drowned—it can't be true! He has escaped, and we shall see him again some day; I am sure of it."
Phil was inclined to be sceptical, but Maurice remained true to his convictions, and steadfastly refused to credit his friend's death.
Two days later, in custody of Colonel Jaroslav's own guard of Cossacks, the boys commenced the long six thousand mile journey back to St. Petersburg—first by sea to the mouth of the Anner, then successively by river, carriage, and rail.
On the night of the tenth of July Vladimir Saradoff was sitting at his library table, a cigar in his mouth, and the Moscow Gazette on his knee. It was quite unusual to find him in St. Petersburg at this time of year, when the neighbouring mansions on the Nevskoi Prospekt were boarded up, and their owners scattered over the Continent, but he had merely dropped in on his way to Paris from one of his northern estates, and preferred the comforts of his home and the ministrations of his faithfnl Ivan to the gloomy solitude of the club.
If any remorse for his fearful crime lurked in his heart, he did not show it. His calm, haughty features expressed self-complacency and content, plainer than words would have told.
"Katkoff's paper ought to be suppressed," he muttered tossing the Gazette over on the table; "it's tone is becoming decidedly dangerous.
"Is everything packed?" he added, turning to Ivan, who was standing motionless by his chair; "we take the Berlin express at noon to-morrow."
"All is ready," said Ivan, quietly, "except the money. I shall go to the bankers in the mornings
"Get five thousand in large notes," said his master, "and a draft on Rothschild for the balance. Ah! a letter for me?" as a servant entered with a sealed envelope on a silver salver.
Vladimir Saradoff looked carelessly at the superscription, and broke the seal. He drew out a folded paper, and holding it under the lamp read the following words, hastily written in a bold, dashing hand.
"Not unmindful of past favours I assume the risk of requiting in some measure the debt of gratitude I owe you. A warrant has been issued for your arrest on a terrible charge. I have seen the proofs. I need say no more. Count Brosky is implacable and determined. He fears complications with the American Government, and will not spare you. The boys are now in the city. Flee at once if yet there is time. Even now I may be too late. Burn this note.
"Yours, "VOROUZOW"
He read it through to the end, word for word, and then as the paper fluttered from his nerveless fingers, he dropped heavily into the chair from which he had risen. His lips mumbled, but no sound came, and his face was white as chalk.
Ivan, deeply alarmed by the sudden collapse, sprang to his master's side with a decanter snatched hastily from the buffet. A spasm passed hastily over Saradoff's features as he took the glass from Ivan, and the powerful stimulant brought a flush to his cheek. He glared wildly about the room and then sprang to his feet. In that brief five minutes Vladimir Saradoff had aged—had suffered the agonies of a lifetime.
"Read that," he cried, tossing the letter to Ivan . "It comes from Vorouzow, private secretary to the court. His information may be relied on. Some person has played the traitor. But never mind, my vengeance will come. Escape is the first thing."
He shuddered, and passed his hand over his forehead.
"Quick, Ivan," he cried, with sudden terror, "quick, or I am lost—escape by rail is cut off—they will watch the stations— I must take to the yacht—it still lies at the docks of Vassili Ostroff—I lent it to Count Adlerberg—it waits his arrival in the morning—do you hear me, Ivan?—I must foil these bloodhounds—call a cab at once—see if the street is empty."
The perspiration was standing in drops on his forehead, and his hands trembled.
Ivan, no less terrified than his master, hurried from the room, dropping the crumpled letter to the floor. Vladimir Saradoff picked it up, and held it over the globe of the lamp. As the last fragment turned to ashes, Ivan returned.
"I have been fortunate," he panted. "I found a cab close by—the streets are empty. Go quick, they may arrive at any moment."
Without a word his master dropped into a chair, seized a pen and ink, and cheque-book, and drove his hand rapidly over the paper.
"Here, take this," he cried; "you must remain behind. Disguise yourself, and you will be safe—go to the bank in the morning—get foreign drafts for this whole amount if you can, and join me in Paris—at the Hotel Bristol. Now a coat, Ivan—a light coat—and my pistols, don't forget them."
A moment later he was ready. A few brief injunctions to Ivan, a hasty farewell, and he hurried down the broad stairway, through the long, magnificently-furnished hall, and passed into the street.
He turned, with a bitter malediction on his lips, for a last look at the stately front of his palace—the last time he would ever see it, he knew well—and then bolted into the cab which the obsequious driver held open for him.
"Catherine's Wharf, docks of Vassili Ostroff," he cried; "twenty rubles if you get there in fifteen minutes. Don't spare your horses."
The door closed with a bang. The driver mounted his box and lashed his steeds. The cab rumbled briskly over the cobblestones—and then drew up with a jerk.
